Heavy Metal sunrise, Descarte in repose, a living nightmare, and frustration in a moving train.
Two new writers, one seasoned author, a man of area, and a 3 a.m. poem blend as one to bring in episode 18 on Prose. Radio. You have to check out this writing, because, as usual, the writers from Prose. are always badasses. Bottom line.
Here's the link.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J6DBZYgEbIw
And here are the pieces featured.
https://www.theprose.com/post/807977/opium-methadone
https://www.theprose.com/post/122344/sisters
https://www.theprose.com/post/809182/2011
https://www.theprose.com/post/809142/so-be-it
https://www.theprose.com/post/809074/frustration-sits-in-a-moving-train
https://www.theprose.com/post/809085/a-junkie-was-born
https://www.theprose.com/post/809186/aveux-dans-la-salle-de-bain
https://www.theprose.com/post/809161/silver-tongued-derelict
https://www.theprose.com/post/809168/3am
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Jane’s Addiction, being a dog, feathery tops in the valley, and everything that follows.
Premiering now: In number seventeen from Prose. Radio, Jane's Addiction sees the ocean break on the shore, while in the city a group of writers from the site bring it back to soil with each of their own literary footprints.
Here's the link to the show:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U33WX-dLTZ4
And here are all the pieces in the feature:
https://www.theprose.com/post/808204
https://www.theprose.com/post/807185/...
https://www.theprose.com/post/785150/...
https://www.theprose.com/post/783763/...
https://www.theprose.com/post/806394/...
https://www.theprose.com/post/808549/...
https://www.theprose.com/post/808564/...
https://www.theprose.com/post/808547
https://www.theprose.com/post/808080/...
https://www.theprose.com/post/808371/...
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
A junkie was born
I used to stay home from school to drink fermented grape juice.
To feel the faintest difference.
To be other than
The small spaces between my toes.
I would argue with myself staring out of the bedroom window.
My eyes falling on the snowy branches lit by those bare bulbs, illumination makes me drowsy.
I would say "if the tree falls, I'll stop all of this"
Promises, promises
I didn't lose my virginity
I found my sex
I used to write every day. I had a word processor, one of those old ones with a giant monitor and a typewriter attached to it. It used floppy disks; I must’ve filled dozens of them.
They are buried in a Mexican desert now, beneath my vomit and blood.
My sister left in ’91. My father turned her room into a canary aviary where I had my very first experience with what writing can do. Settling in Midtown apartments after immigrating to the U.S. I befriended a homeless brother and sister duo who would rummage through the dumpsters at the complex. I had a knack for making friends with the rejects. They knew my life, they could smell my insides. The duo would fish out books and give them to me. My dead hero's fished from dumpsters right into my 10 year old lap... Kerouac,
Burroughs and Descartes.
One day they came across a beat up typewriter as I stood watch under the dumpster telling them stories of Russia. I took it home and placed it on the floor of the aviary room and climbed into the abyss.
I was teaching myself how to escape, before I found the grape juice.
When he fucked me, I saw God.
My mood is
indescribable.
A downspout of
misguided
rain freezing
overnight.
A complicated
mountain fold,
its peak
sheltered
by sensitivity
and fog.
Its hardened
crust evaporating
into
sadness.
My desolation
comforted
by his imagery
and love.
Pain is
romanticized
inside
my mind.
Literary connections
found
in pulsating
isolation.
Love me
back.
I am
disconnected
from the norm.
Relieving cuts
pour
blood onto
canvas.
Empty.
I offer
definition
unintelligibly through
matte abstraction.
I am
complexly
overwhelmed by
simple movement.
My mascara
smears like—
A whore.
My legs
spread
wide,
knees bent,
my aged hips
crack with
temporary
satiation.
Heavy
sighs are
my aphrodisiac
into
oblivion.
The warmth
of
the sun
on my face
is my
mother.
Nature
hugs me
with
its splintered
bark.
Gasping
with emotion,
the thought
of him
hurts.
Moved
to tears
when
Mozart's plays
tangible.
A grin
too wide and
too toothy
silently churns.
My stomach hurts
to the tone of
laughing
like a clown.
Names
spelled wrong
hang on
the air
make
me dizzy.
Contradicting
comfort found
in
metaphors
and equation
abandon me
ad infinitum.
Abhorrent
shock at
mass blindness
ruminates.
Raw.
Despair drops
into buckets
of mud
in my chest
when
I think
of you.
Despondency
covers
my shoulders,
my grandmother's
shawl,
when
the chill
of
loneliness comes.
Inner epiphanies
debate
over desire
and
reality.
I stand
still and
frozen in
my existential
existence.
I know
my bravery
exists
but I am
fucked
between
folded linen.
Stale.
And
the closet
is closed.
And my
heart
drops.
There is
no point
anymore.
I am sad
and
I am
grieving
indefinitely.
You are gone.
It is dark
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.
Billy Idol’s candy brain, exclusive destruction, and what hides behind thoughts.
Episode sweet sixteen rings in with a beat of Billy Idol, into a stream of consciousness wake, led by a man of duality, and topped off with a poem by one of the ever-shining stars in our night sky...
Beccawaits and BIGT round off the video with style and loving grace.
Here's the lnk.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aadNTBBb54M&t=84s
And here are the pieces.
https://www.theprose.com/post/807496/...
https://www.theprose.com/post/805779/...
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Hugs porn
Hungry, horny, tired - the usual state. Craving for caffeine, nicotine, soulful night-time conversations. Insomnia as a way of life, benzodiazepines masking an aching heart that can't bear the burden. Everything starts losing color, and an inner voice urges that in my condition, I don't need more Klonopin, but great mental strength. So I try to jerk off. Conjuring up faded figures straight from the memory bank. Thinking of me choking someone. Choking her with a hand, choking her with a cock. Hand bent behind, as per tradition. I Can't get it up. Can't fucking get it up. I feel like punching all the walls of this sad house until this bent hand can never be open again. Just a few wild thoughts and solitudes I have on this night, and I'm already tired of self-pleasure over pixelated women at laptop resolution, and I searched the web for hug porn but found none. Do people even hug in porn? I roll another cigarette. The moon at its zenith in the night sky. My pupils are the diameter of a needle. My girlfriend is sleeping now, and I'm not into her tonight. My WhatsApp fills up with filthy messages that will never come to fruition, because I have no interest in them. Meanwhile, some girl says she's not afraid to go outside to see the abundance of stars. She can go fuck herself, and if I see a falling star tonight, I'll wish for it to fall on her. Now I'm in the mood for cheap wine and anti-anxiety meds. And it's not self-destruction at all if it's because of someone. It doesn't hurt if it's numb. It's not a choice if it's a default.
Bad Magic
Mankind has taken hold
of the dark end of the wand
for now, so when it
waves this baton of power
it curses itself anew
Eases into greed
The murderer of the soul
Acquiesces to the
Hating heart and the
blood stained fist
But wait and be patient h
For light is coming
And the morning waits
Watching like a mother
Her sleeping child.
©Bernard Pearson
Brushing Sand
Answer number one: it was beautiful, and then it was dust, and then it was both.
I remember seeing the rover for the first time. I almost didn’t want to touch it, like it was holy, a bone from a saint. Then I stepped back and saw my bootprint next to it, and I knew, fully, where we were.
The four of us had studied Mars exhaustively for years and viewed every image, still or moving, dozens or hundreds of times. We had felt the sand that first sample-return drone recovered: a box of precious nothingness, 10 centimeters square, every grain analyzed and formulated by celebrated scientists. They learned so little from it. But what we felt, we chosen four who immersed tentative fingers within it, let it rest in the grooves of our fingerprints...
Full story newly published by NewMyths here: https://sites.google.com/newmyths.com/newmyths-com-issue-66/issue-66-stories/brushing-sand
Years ago, the early draft of this story appeared for a brief time on Prose. The response was favorable, and also included some criticism that helped me realize the story could be better. After a great deal of reworking, I am very proud to share the final, published version with my Prose friends. Thanks to all who commented on that early draft, but especially to TheWolfeDen, whose challenge inspired the story, and JD4, whose criticism was sharpest and therefore the most helpful.