February 2012
5 posts
2 tags
A maiden laughed in the distance, hidden in the tall green grass below the far-reaching willow; the lady lay, sprawled, across the ebony earth, her loose emerald petticoats fanned across the willow’s roots, her curls soaking up the summer sun like a marigold blossom.
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Banana peels and apple cores rotted in her stomach like two stones weighing on heavy parchment bleeding with ink that rots too there’s no answer on pen and paper in the real world only money answers when its called the only ink that stains stains hands open for greed that means labor an hour of your time worth ink and paper marked with symbols only payable to sin when he flatters you Eve she...
Quintessentialist: Language as a Weapon of Mass... →
elebuufish:
quintessentialist:
Consider the following quote from Wycliffe’s English Bible: “If a man slepith with a man, bi letcherie of a womman, euer either hath wrouyt vnleueful thing, die thei bi deeth; her blood be on hem”. Lechery comes from the Old French lecherie, which is interestingly similar to the French le cher,…
Reblogging for Eric. I think you’ll find this...
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Question for my followers.
The more I think about things, the more in-depth I try to go with my writing, meaning symbolism, extended metaphors, expressing the unpopular opinion, etc. Is it too much; am I becoming too radical for the taste of this blog’s followers? Let me know.
While you’re at it, try this on for size:
Women, especially young women, are often valued in conjunction with their sexuality. For...
January 2012
9 posts
Quintessentialist: Language as a Weapon of Mass... →
elebuufish:
ehyeh:
elebuufish:
quintessentialist:
Consider the following quote from Wycliffe’s English Bible: “If a man slepith with a man, bi letcherie of a womman, euer either hath wrouyt vnleueful thing, die thei bi deeth; her blood be on hem”. Lechery comes from the Old French lecherie, which is interestingly similar to the French le cher,…
Reblogging for Eric. I think you’ll find...
8 tags
Language as a Weapon of Mass Destruction: Episode...
Consider the following quote from Wycliffe’s English Bible: “If a man slepith with a man, bi letcherie of a womman, euer either hath wrouyt vnleueful thing, die thei bi deeth; her blood be on hem”. Lechery comes from the Old French lecherie, which is interestingly similar to the French le cher, meaning “dear” or “loved one”. It’s also important to note that more than four hundred and...
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Excerpt
A soft wind blew, scattering the chrysanthemums across neighboring graves, dyed black and white in the avant-dawn glow.
She curled her fingers around the long blades of grass, rubbing the cold earth across her palms, crumbling the dirt within her fists. Her hands throbbed with Sissy’s beating heart.
The old woman, for that was what she was, groveled above her sister’s grave, feeling now the...
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Language - AKA, a Weapon of Mass Destruction
Consider this quote: “Language is the armory of the human mind, and at once contains the trophies of its past and the weapons of its future conquests.”
The assumption can be made that language resides in the mind awaiting use. To make the rest of the quote clear, it must be deconstructed. The 15th century definition of armory refers to a place where arms are not stored, but...
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Backdoor Man - The Doors
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Footnote
Floating from an asterisk, a shooting star muck black nails grip to lewd mouths, stretching their cracked lips, their brittle bones for virgin words to chew with teeth as sharp as knives. Then spit up, had, a footnote in typed black text.
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Research Paper
Of inferior dirt they call her thriving a green queen among the withered weeds pursuing apples rotted, sun-dried seeds gourged with possom teeth and grinning wide as the Atlantic Her knuckles are bitten raw bowing letters and postage stamps to stocking-footed men If she’s done it once, she’s done it twice before Then, how now my mousy, matted friend smeared black with pitch and maple...
December 2011
6 posts
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The Housewife's Ransom
It smells of mothballs - the launderer soaked it with formaldehyde, those possum-grinning teeth clasping the fir collar, the stiff neck, like bleach and pressed in attic dust. Emerald cuffs with silken lining of russet, gold, and buttons to match the grit. It is the zealous after-massacre of trips to Africa, on airplanes with a surplus of of space for Chanel - heels and pearls and feather combs...
DREAM COLLEGE ACCEPTED ME :DDDDD
Music
Dubstep
Battery Acid to the ears.
Thesis
The sentimental generalization of songs listed on the Billboard Top 40 cheapens music in conjunction with the homogenization of other consumables.
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Another Pie Metaphor
Mind the recipe.
Forgotten ingredients
produce half-baked pies.
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In Which an Apple Pie Contemplates World...
The bastardized apple pie stewed in its spoilt air, contemplating world domination from the corner cabinet, between the pilgrim salt and pepper shaker and the blender. Sprouts, like fiendish minions, spawned from within the pie crust, thrusting past the inner layer with hunched stems and withered grey leaves. Morality rots, it thinks; virtue follows.
November 2011
12 posts
2 tags
With an ignorant disposition searching blindly in the dark for answers in a midnight game show staged in back alley, brick rooms facing the white, white stars reaching toward the poisoned blue. A set of false teeth, a glove gripping iron rods rusted crimson red, so old they’d bend and break They would perish under red brick weight and dust. Dust for red, red brick walls.
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Beau Fixe, Coralie Clement
I’ve had this...
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There was tunnel. A black tunnel. And there was a light at the end. I couldn’t touch it. But I saw it. And it was like nothing I’d ever seen before. There was a light at the end of tunnel. And I was going to grab it. Touch it. Hold it. Right.
~~~
My lovlies,
Today we will...
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Her thoughts remained on the mire that, settled in her mind, imbrued the bloody sword with which she fought her mental battle: was man good, or evil? A mystery, for sure.
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She thinks herself an artist with lusty black hair and coal-black eyes unusual but she’s just like the rest. Her eyes are carefully smeared with violet paints and vulgar patches of scars where her face once was. She finds depth in shallow waters of art an artist of illusion and illuding herself. She’s just like the rest.
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To kiss those lips which so afflict the tongue, in bloody battle do bleed scarlet red to hiss mistakes of feeble men and catch the jaw in yawning traps. Clenched shut with ivory chains grating gums to keep the nay-sayers sore, and silent. Do the ugly really speak and do the beauties sing? The clenchéd jaws will never tell.
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The Final Joke
No one expects a thirty year old man to pass away in his sleep. His family doesn’t expect to stand over his pale body framed in a silk-lined casket. They don’t expect a he to become an it, a corpse, another grave marker in a field of many. Yet this was how I first met death, an eight year old at her uncle’s funeral. Because of his death, I learned how to truly live.
I couldn’t fathom the idea that...
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You are a serpent you are the moon you are a Sunday afternoon You are a playbill you are a book You are the photograph I took You are a pen you are a quill you are the erosion of my will You are an apple you are a tree you are the sweet, sweet honey bee And I am irrelevant.
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“And as imagination bodies forth the forms of things unknown, the poet’s...”
– A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act IV
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Question for you grammar Nazis...
Can a comma be placed after a dash, like so?
She pestered the men about her mailbox – destroyed during the collision –, what business was it of hers?
I’ve also considered:
She pestered the men about her mailbox – destroyed during the collision; what business was it of hers?
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A Florida Winter
Winter rains freeze white-wash skin awaken words forgotten, and I blinded with glass, with liquid silk remember the lines of forgotten prose.
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“There was a whole chain of separate departments dealing with proletarian...”
– 1984, George Orwell
October 2011
10 posts
1 tag
Coffee shop hot drink, hot tongue too bad for scruffy men, good girls don’t go here not since 1989 we find ourselves modern with hot chocolate that virgin coffee served colder, never quite satisfactory always leaving the stove on never taking the pot off burning coffee better than no coffee that’s what addicts say bad coffee is better than no coffee good girls never say so
no.
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Zombie Apocalypse Continued
It was all over the news – like an epidemic the word had spread, plaguing the world’s swiftly beating hearts and troubled minds with a horror that, until this day, had remained unbeknownst to mankind. An apocalypse, the newscaster stuttered, driven by intellectual dilution and downright stupidity, had dawned, and spurred with it a race of terrifying, mindless creatures, a species so...
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Frank Sinatra never gets old.
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Zombie Apocalypse, Stupidity is Contagious
Working on college application essays. One school requested that I write about a zombie apocalypse (let me just say here, I love this college) - here’s my opening paragraph:
It was all over the news - like an epidemic the word had spread, plaguing the world’s swiftly beating hearts and troubled thoughts with a horror, that until this day, had remained unbeknownst to mankind. An...
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Yawn
It’s a quiet night and the laundry is going The windows are drawn cast out is the rain but I can still hear it pouring The washing machine squeaks the studious air undisturbed yawns; its student is tired too.
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Petticoats of a whore they fit her well cast off, coarse and rotten. What a child to say such things when no one will bother to listen. The wing-beaters, the moths will make ash of her coats nibbling like fair-winged beasts. She loves it when you ask her to stay that imp, that flaxen queen so affected in her manner she’d rather die than raise the banner so white and crisp and clean. But what...
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A homecoming dress a poor girl’s calling to wear again and once more, like the year before a symbol of her status among the gentry folk a weed, a Pleb of the softest sort though never kind enough to sway them those golden God-girls with shocks of hair so blond the glossy light looks blinding. An outcast, an outcast for now the pleasant girls stay home to mend their worn gowns, to weave their...
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The Moon Lily
It was a room full of noses; slanted, curved, bumped; and breathing, a simultaneous inhalation from slim nosed, beak-like noses; the noses of black tie socialites with complexes and clean cut, high chins In a great movement of conformity, the congregation lifted and lowered their shoulders together, carrying on with their canards, their satiric muckraking In the center of this mess their saving...
Occupy Wall Street
I’m going to my town’s version of Occupy tomorrow. Should be interesting. Perhaps it’ll inspire a poetic epiphany.
Stay tuned.
September 2011
10 posts
2 tags
TV
I know them. The hallow words, the fascist grin gearing thoughts in one direction They flash like shadows on the grave cave wall It is a masquerade of layman’s terms It is a fairy tale, of sorts that grips the reader in a melted wax of gouged eyes and hallow heads And yet we don’t protest. Flashing, gorged like fat worms digesting curdled milk. It will settle in our throats, the after...
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Gen. Y
A silent force breaking boundaries
fenced in by disenchanted love letters
declarations for anti-climatic girls
these table turners, turning tricks for
extra cash on weekends
They serve a purpose in the underground
somber faces breaking backs to crawl in the undergrowth,
weeds
exchanging names and faces, always volatile
slippery little shits
as mother would say, a vulgar woman
It’s...
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“We had fed the heart on fantasy,
The heart’s grown brutal from the fare.”
– Yeats, The Story’s Nest By My Window
I can’t publicize my thoughts right now, which is difficult since I don’t generally censor myself, especially not here.
I have a certain phone number saved in my cell phone as “Google”. I also have recordings and certain chats saved on my computer for proof.
This will be confronted. It’s over.
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She spoke of brittle bones
black hearts
tragic endings.
Not a darker thought than
short lives, youthful longings.
The things that dreams
are
destroyed with
decaying
in creator’s rotted minds.
It’s quite a mess, there.
In fecund minds
alive with grind
and grissly aftermath,
charming.
Just charming.
Guess who's writing her paper at the last minute.
Again.
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9/11 and Desensitization
I’ve been doing some reading on Amusing Ourselves to Death, and although it is a class assignment, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed it. Basically, it’s about television and its various influences on politics, education, etc. Actually, I had the opportunity to read an excerpt of it last school year, and since then I’ve tried to remove myself from TV altogether, which is now why I...
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“The public has always, in every age, been asking Art to be popular, to please...”
– The Soul of Man Under Socialism, Oscar Wilde