Poetry – My Love, My Adversary

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I don’t like Poetry.

So I reject her at every turn.

With every fiber of my exhausted being.

But she craves that sort of thing.

Stubborn Poetry. Blossoms in both sunlight and shade.

I detest how she makes me feel.

Or how she forces me to feel.

Or the ways she feels about me.

Or the places she makes me travel when we’re alone together.

Or that she makes others openly feel in my direction.

Or that she’s so unshackled. And raw. Nonsensical and free.

Unencumbered by filters or structure and gleefully vulnerable.

All things I’d rather not be in my fragile and fleeting existence.

“Please, leave me be….” I beg her to no avail.

It irritates me that she wallows, with a tropical drink and a smile, in my bubbling emotions like a jacuzzi. The very emotions in which I meditate and medicate to escape.

“You know exactly what you’re doing…” I cry to her.

She’s a grappling hook dragging me kicking and screaming into the dammed, watery abyss located miles behind my cheeky smirk and dry, unblinking eyes.

The abyss where I once drowned daily in my truths and choked hourly on my self-awareness.

“I don’t need you,” I tell myself.

I recall swimming with boulders on my ankles to the surface with sinking shores where  I built a foundation on an island of sand and ashes. And it was necessary and great.

It was paradise. She knew it was paradise.

But yet she digs trenches in me so deep that they scrape the center of my earth and leave scab marks, tall like mountains and deep like caverns on my inner core.

“Why poetry?” I ask. “Why ignite my flame?”

Can you answer that for me, Poetry?

There’s no extinguishing a torch which was never lit. You could’ve left me cold and blind. Where it was safe.

Why conduct symphonies with my heartstrings?

At first Poetry is silent. But then she replies to me with a wavy reflection. Every time. With a f***ing reflection. She shines that distorted reflection of me with a wormhole in my chest the size of a collapsing star.

“This is why I despise you, Poetry…”

Because I can’t help but love you. You leave me no choice but to love you. A love so strong that it bleeds into bitter indignation for you and for myself for loving you.

You’re meant for me. And I’m meant for you.

Tethered through desire and longing.

Like half-buried roses with razor sharp thorns.

Escaping you is escaping myself. Which is an impossibility.

“But you knew that, didn’t you… Poetry.”

Diamond’s Tuition

https://cellcode.us/quotes/sketches-aesthetic-drawing-dope-tumblr.html

The photographs looked nothing like her.

Snap!

The creeper photographer began snapping from lower angles.

She fixed her hair in one of several smudged mirrors surrounding the half-empty loft.

The photos looked nothing like her. Which was a good thing. She never gives photographers or agents her real name. To them, she’s Diamond. In case she ever ran for political office. In case she married a megachurch pastor. Everyone everywhere had a doppleganger somewhere in the world. Her’s was Diamond.

She straightened her back. “This good?”

The photographer lowered his camera towards her thighs.

“What now?” She asked.

“Nothing.” He Glared at her over the camera lens.

“Yes?” She snapped. “I’m getting tired.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, be faster please.”

The money he offered was going to pay off her tuition for the semester. And, though he was inches shorter than she was in flats, he was three times her size in girth. She needed to watch her tone.

The photographer approached her.

She forced a smile. “Done?”

“Yeah….” The photographer nodded. “Almost finished.”

The photographer’s wore an aromatic musk was something she expected from a tall, coco flavored Wall street hottie with muscles and a full head of hair. His aroma created conflict between her eyes and nose. A stout, balding man with a stretched out wife beater should smell the opposite.

The photographer reached for her vest.

She immediately pulled away. “Excuse me!”

“It’s classy…”

“You mean pornographic?”

“Nothing like that.”

Creep…

“These will all be tasteful shots.”

She left her stool. “Yeah… right.”

Slimeball.

“I didn’t mean to alarm you.” The photographer put his camera aside.

She scooped her clothes from the photographer’s unfolded futon and marched towards the door.

I’m an idiot.

She didn’t deserve a doctorate. Nobody in their right mind would agree to enter a strange man’s warehouse apartment to take semi-nude photographs for a blog she’d never heard of.

“Five thousand extra.” The photographer offered.

She turned to see two columns of dollar bills on his kitchenette counter

“Towards your college debt, Ms. Thompson.” The Photographer smiled.

The stack was tall. Thick. Greener than green.

“How many shots?” She asked.

“A dozen,” He replied.

“Too many.”

For too little…

“Only need three to publish.”

“The other nine?”

“I’ll delete.”

She returned to her stool.

“Panties remain.”  She opened her vest. “Hurry up.”

“Okay…” Photographer waved his hand. “Just need you to move your-”

She moved her arms to expose her breasts.

He snapped several photos. “That’s great.”

Doesn’t feel great. 

He lowered his camera.

She covered her chest. “What now?”

“One sec.” The photographer took off towards his room.

He could be back there gathering rope and electrical tape.

“I don’t have a sec,” She called.

The photographer returned. “Batteries died”

“Five minutes, I’m gone… I’m serious.”

“Got it.” He set his camera. “You ready?”

She exposed her breasts. “Yes, sir.”

“You’re doing wonderful.” Photographer inched closer.

She side-eyed the camera.

Wait… He called me Ms. Thompson… I never told him my name… 

The end

Sleep In Peace

Sleepinpeace

Sleep in peace, brave warrior.

Lay your weapons and burdens aside.

Accept peace and remain in it, knowing you fought well.

Against impossible enemies. Against fate.

You protected me. Loved me.

Now it’s time to become one with me. Become me.

And I promise you.

You will never know death In my embrace. Only eternal life.

As you sleep you will exist as the flowers.

The trees.

As the pollen in the air.

As rain, hydrating the soil. Fueling and resurrecting life.

And one day –whence this planet dissolves– as the dust scattered among the stars.

Sleep well. My love.

 

(Sleep in Peace My Dear Sister, Rhea)

 

Fleeting Tale Vol. 3 “Goodbye, Miles…”

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He sighed. Carved the webbing from the door along with the petrified corpse of his eight-legged friend Miles.

Miles was amazing. A solid friend who kept flies out of his basement and away from where he practiced his turntables every Sunday. And in return, he allowed Miles to use the real estate at the top corner of his basement door. To grow his web-condominium. Shelter from the unpredictable autumn elements.

Goodbye friend. 

He used the plastic knife to scrape webbing into a paper towel.

His dog licked his hand. Woof. 

He softly pinched his dog’s ear. “I’ll miss him too.”

 

The End

 

Fleeting Tale (Vol. 2… a.k.a. mandatory weekly update volume whatever).

Notebook

He found nothing about life funny. Or beautiful. Or remotely enjoyable.

He sank lower in his seat.

Well, there was his wife, and his many unpublished writings. That’s Beautiful. Enjoyable.

My writings suck. 

“Then you have negative fourteen to the…” His algebra professor droned while slowly fading out of existence.

Can’t be me anymore. Must be better. 

He slapped his nose.

It was a nasty habit. An indication that anxiety was about to overtake his already turbulent mind. Like a spider-sense but for obsessive compulsive writers who lack charisma and self-confidence.

He checked the time.

Forty minutes?!

He sank lower.

 

 

Fleeting tale (Unedited Short vol 1)

Windows

He stood from his desk and walked to the window.

It was sunny, but deceptively cold. His toes were cryogenically frozen in his shoes- and will outlast him long after his death.

He thought of how much wife says he’s good. Had the potential to be something. Thought about how much she hated his short sentences. 

He threw on his jacket. Grabbed his two cameras. Powered down his monitors.

May never succeed, but I have to try. I owe it to them. To her.  

Exhaled.

He’ll walk about. He’ll deeply reflect. He’ll continue to create and to work, despite fear.

Oh Mother

He sulked. Protruded his lips. Stared fiery daggers into the cute young woman preparing Mother’s cheeseburger at an elderly turtle’s pace.

Past midnight. Should be home. In bed. But Mother needs help moving. And fast food at an ungodly hour. Sucked being the favorite. Favorites do the heavy lifting. Physical. Emotional. Lifting. 

“Appreciate you.” Mother said.

He smirked.

“Want anything?” Mother asked.

Yes. Sleep. Freaking tired. 

“Nah,” He answered.

Mother bit into a stale-ish looking fry.

“Good?” He asked.

Mother nodded. “Thank you, son.”

He smiled. “You’re welcome.”

Mother’s smile offset some of his saltiness. Some… Not all.

Yawn.

Hungry.

 

 

 

 

Iku’s Defeat

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Read “Scale-Lord’s Victory” here

My hallowed sword. Clear as ice. Invisible to mortal eyes. Her’s was the red dagger. Black edges. Boisterous. Hellish. Magma. My off-hand weapon.

I stalked her.

Her dagger-like nails. She swiftly peeled through my sanctified steel.

Now!

I flung Ice at her eye. Cleaved down on her wings with Magma.

Unholy rage. Desperation. Love.

Ice shattered like glass on impact. Magma snapped in threes.

She cackled. “Hopeless boy…”

I scrambled for the shattered weapons.

Useless weapons! Lying old shaman! 

Phwoosh!

Wings sliced over my head. Clipped my knotted mane.

“Enough!” I pleaded.

E’lees… save her.  

I retrieved pieces of Magma in stealth.

Enchanted weapons were her last hope to retrieve what’s left . Of her.

She summoned machines. Slicing. Crushing. Machines.

I screamed. “Stop!”

She took flight. Whipped her wings. Summoned gusts of wind which pinned me against a crumbling column.

My despair dissolved to acceptance.

I failed. 

I braced my body for a pain worse than death.

She caressed my cheek. “Oh, Iku…”

Pity in her demonic tone. Pity for me.

I opened my teary eyes.

Wings. Leathery skin.  All vanished in favor of her angelic flesh.

“Stop fighting.” She cuffed my cheek.

I looked away.

Tricks. Glamour.

You wear her flesh. But you are not her.

I unearthed her broken Magma.

“Be with me,” She pleaded.

Fine. 

I drove Magma into my chest.

To be with her. In oblivion.

Her wings sprouted. Form shifted from flesh to scales.

“Iku!” She shrieked and collapsed the temple on top of us.

 

 

 

Mem-brain Theorem

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Reality’s collapsing around us. Just… us.

Volatile, inter-dimensional shifts bubbling throughout our home. We’re existing in the same space, breathing the same air. Or so it seems.

She enters our kitchen. Phases through me.

“Morning,” I say.

Silence. No reaction to me. She sips coffee. No slurps nor satisfied gasps.

Thick layers of brane… brain? Translucent fields inflaming and growing denser. Filtering my greetings. My regrets. My apologies.

I waved. “Hey”.

Marcey nodded.

“Good?”

“Great…”

Final hypothesis. 

We are occupying the same time and space. But never quite the same time. And. Or. Space.

Mission critical. Must. Reunite. Our. Realities.