Too many dreams
Burned up in the home
And fed to the sky
Like a sacrifice to God
For our well being
We watch the smoke rise
It’s always black smoke
Always a stalemate
Never a pope
We only have this time together, so let’s spend it bickering and snickering about the mindless things which tie us in this union. We only have these precious hours to mark as ours and record memories for all perpetuity. We only have this faith in faith of future days we’ve already claimed while we’ve wasted these. A sleep to sleep and never dream and never know it’s ending.
She held him down and kissed him
With her mouth full of fishes
Like she was the seventh queen of the seas
Like the power of the waves compelled her
And he drowned
In a slow aching motion
Until his heart gave out below them
Until the bubbles stopped around them
And then he floated away
While she still lingered
Clackety track ack ack! The trains are stopped for a heart attack. Delays are stacked like crates on a rack and backed up to some other day. You won’t be getting home again.
We spirits gather around you today to wish you a solemn deathday. You are turning -21. You can’t see us and you are completely unaware that today’s date is more significant than yesterday’s or tomorrow’s, but we are the ones who have been with you since you the day you were born. And we are the ones honoring an anniversary that is yet to come. So we celebrate your life — all that you’ve done with it and all that you have left with it.
March 23, 2035
On a hilltop desolate
We waited for a quorum met
I kicked the ground and paced again
“This is the last time” no one said
But in the silence we all meant
All the things which were never said
And on and on and on we go
At last the waiting soured stale
They didn’t bother no one cared
An absence was the same as being there
With shuffled feet I caught their eyes
And muttered vague words of goodbye
We hesitatingly turned to face the sky
Fly fly fly away
Peace be upon you, Brothers. I am writing to inform you that the hour of our prayer is coming. Soon our enemies will be crushed by the Left Hand of O-r. Jubilee! Jubilee! All Holiness will be revealed to those who stand strong, for we are the arms upon which the Left Hand rests. For it is written that steel is stronger than flesh, so we must fortify ourselves in advance of the hour. Beware false allies who would betray you. Beware those who would ply you with love in exchange for your complacence. They do not want your love in return. Awake, dear Brothers! Awake to the bugle of my words! The path to the Universal is a treacherous one, but one that is well marked to those with opened eyes. Lift your feet and march!
Yours in Life,
A Prophet and Clarion of O-r
I am going to stab myself with this pencil in retaliation for my weakness and failure. I will plunge it into me like a samurai sword, except I have no dignity or honor. All of my contents will spill onto this page and leave a mess for others to sort out… should they ever find it.
The erotic Mr. Twoombley awoke from a night spent slipped between satin sheets. The spring breeze breathed through his open window and the bird songs signaled morning. He rose. He sleeps in the nude. He strolled to the freshly cut flowers kept in a vase and inhaled their fragrance of life. After a luxurious bath, the erotic Mr. Twoombley dressed in white linen pants and a white shirt with the top four buttons left unbuttoned. He went to work and presented each lady there with a single rose.
When the erotic Mr. Twoombley makes love, he does so slowly and tenderly in a bathtub lined with rose petals and candles. He adores her like a goddess. After their union is fulfilled, he doesn’t call for a taxi. Rather, he sends for a horse drawn carriage and sends her home with the wistful memories which come from an evening spent kneeling before Love’s altar.
* * *
Every morning, that weirdo across the street stands naked in front of his window, waiting for someone to look at him. He wears the same clothes every day and reeks of cheap cologne. I heard that when he goes to work, he makes all of the women uncomfortable by handing out carnations and making innuendo.
I knew a girl who once fell for his act. She described an encounter in which he groped her awkwardly as they fumbled in a small bath tub of questionable cleanliness, all the while her back bumping against the faucet. It was mercifully over soon, but to this day, the scent of Yankee Candle triggers flashbacks. And after all that, he never even called for a cab. Instead, his gimpy friend with the missing teeth waited outside with his bicycle rickshaw and asked for her address. She walked. What a creep!
She thought of me and I appeared inside a thought bubble that hovered over her head. Soon, I puttered away and floated to the place where she keeps her other thoughts. It was a land filled with wild ambitions and debilitating fears. Some thoughts were boring. Some thoughts were naughty. I soon learned that, over here, I had no say in anything I’d do. “That’s not me,” I’d try to scream. “I’m not like that at all!” But my voice was silent. I helplessly watched as I gradually transformed into a grotesque caricature of myself before turning into nothing at all.