Envied and Reviled

Who envies the woman reviled by her kind

Devoid of some social spark deemed essential

 

She is so often silently aware in her youth

Growing angrily so with age

Collapsing like an egg when she’s small

Recoiling like a viper in due time

 

Unless she finds a precarious throne

She is alone but for her suitors

Who merrily annoy her until their intentions are made clear

 

All her heart is set aside for a lover

And all the loyalty the more fortunate innumerably divide

All her tears were spent on fools

She is the sweet fruit for the vanquisher

The perfect mate for the truly strong

The zealous patron of a fiery man

Is this broken woman adrift

Purity preserved

Passion untouched

 

Envied and reviled by her kind

Innocence

Father Matias cupped a freshly lit candle with his hand as he mouthed a litany. His eyes were dimly grey and full of troubled thoughts, his movements earnest, almost desperate. He placed the candle on the desk before him and sat down in his darkened office. He often did this after he was done; this was his ritual that was his personal means of banishing the shame of his actions. The darkness was a comfort; the light always carried with it the silent evidence of an onlooker, wordlessly scribbling in a thick book each deed. This was his hiding place. Father Matias unlocked the center drawer and removed a small thick, leather bound book. It had the appearance of a Bible, but it held instead his thoughts and recollections, specifically, those of a more peculiar nature. He undid the small brass clasp and flipped through the red crusted pages to a blank pair, and used a metal clip affixed to the binding to hold the position. From his pants pocket he brought forth a small vile of crimson, with which he would record the climax of previous evening, as he always did on the special days following his notable accomplishments. He began with a simple statement of fact. “It was bloody.” Detective Holland had only had to meet people of his personal acquaintance with professional concerns a handful of times. He has always made a point of ensuring his neutrality when business mixed with pleasure. This time however he was unsure that would be possible. Today he would be confronting the father of his own parish regarding the rape and murder of a small boy that had occurred only 3 days previous. Physical evidence was uncertain but indicated the priest’s involvement. Holland did not believe the man capable of such an action but deigned to be the one who would investigate the matter anyways. As he walked up the steps to the large basalt doors reflected on the many sacrifices and donations of time and money that the older man had conferred upon the community over the years. Ever since Holland could remember the priest had been an upstanding citizen, though not the most godly man. Surprising as it may be given his position, Father matias belonged to a rather liberal school of catholic dogma, one that was ever-present in this urban environment wherever Catholic scholars congregated. Holland strode into the nearly empty chapel, the clicking of his shoes singing around the vaulted corridor. Father matias turned from where he stood near the front instructing two choir boy , and motioned Holland forward. “Hello Donald, how can I be of service to you my son?” The priest piously intoned, dismissing the two pupils with a nod and a glance. Holland grimly lowered his gaze and began by informing the priest of the department’s suspicions. “You have been linked to a crime father. I’m going to have to ask you some questions.” “Me?” replied the priest, struggling beneath his robes and contorting his face into a passive look of displeasure. “Well, I suppose we should be seated then, although I’ll have you know that your demeanor disturbs me/” The old man said, sitting on the first pew and signaling and invitation with a gesture. Holland remained standing; his partner stepped through the front door and made his way towards the pair. “Father I will refer to you by your given name for the duration of this and any subsequent interview.” Holland said matter of fatly. His fellow officer took a seat in the second pew from the front, diagonal the priest, and withdrew a small notebook from his jacket pocket. “Matias, where were you on the night of blah de blah blah?”  “Three days ago? Well I was here-… oh you don’t mean-“ “Can someone confirm that you were here from x to y?” “Officer,” “detective.” “Yes of course; detective, this wouldn’t have anything to do with the death of that young man would it?” Holland frowned. “ What?” “Well the family has been here recently. I have been making efforts to console them regarding this recent tragedy. You are not implying that I had anything to do with his murder-“ “I am imply nothing Fath-… Matias. I only need to know if someone can confirm your whereabouts that evening.” “Well yes I am sure someone can. I was instructing a few of the new boys earlier, but was alone before and prior to the time in question. At least I think I was, what exactly do you mean by x to y?” “I mean x to y. PM. What is there to be confused about?” “Well, for one thing those are letters and not numbers, and time is well… you know, typically told in numbers?” The old priest had a worried expression on his face, not one that inspired suspicion but one that spelled confusion. Holland had seen it before, back in Vietnam… back when the pajama men were coming for them, and his buddy had looked up and screamed at the sight of their allies above. Holland didn’t understand his friend’s bewilderment. What was so bizarre about flying war hippos? They had been used as far back as the Spanish American war. Apparently 4 finger Fred hadn’t read his field manual, or his American history text book for that matter. … Uh anyways what am I writing about again? ///

Oh yes of course. Forget all that stuff about the time and skip forward a few conversations.

Father Matias smiled as his swiped through the rosary beads.  He was waiting in his office, waiting for the detective that had so foolishly dug too deep into the mystery before him. He had survived the cultists and unnatural gales that had peppered the city for the last several days, but soon he would be ended. Soon, they would all be swimming to their deaths, each and every unchanged man. Holland knocked on the door. “Come in.” Matais said with a wet piggish glee. “I have been acquitted detective? Or has the department found more pressing concerns amidst the bizarre weather we have witnessed as of late?” Holland nodded. “Both are true, the latter more so I am afraid. I am so sorry to have put you through this father.” “Father… yes it is good to hear that from your lips my son.” The priest turned about in his chair and retired something from the window sill behind his desk. “Throughout all of these false acquisitions-“ Matias’s lips squelched and clicked, his smile glinting in the candle light. He rolled the object around in his hand and turned back to the detective with a nonchalant expression masking his intent, “I have been aware of your noble intentions. I appreciate the sentiment but you were doing only what was necessary my son.” “Yes of course father. “ Holland glanced into the priest’s cupped palm but said nothing. “Curious are we?” said the priest. “Sorry?” “Would you like to see what I am holding my son?” His face grew mischievous and Holland was suddenly filled with a vile sense of unease. “Father?” “Yes Donovin. I AM YOUR FATHER.” With that the priest sprang up onto the window sill behind him. Graceful as a cobra, he let the silver sliver slide into his iron grip, and slid his thumb across the hilt of what was suddenly a solid bean of red light. A dazzling shaft of red that showered the room in crimson. Holland had known this day would come, and was ready. He pulled out the anti-material rifle that he always had concealed in his pants leg, and in a twisting dive from his seat, 360 no-scoped the evil bastard. The shot did not connect. “YOU THINK YOU CAN STOP ME?” Said the maleficent space wizard, collar bursting from around his neck. “HIGHLY ACCELERATED METAL CANNOT STOP THE SEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA” It was at that moment that Holland recognized that the priest had not been a man, but was all this time a 23 foot long killer whale, angrily squeaking in its porpoise voice, spewing water from its blow hole. The porpoise space wizard cultist rushed at Holland with his bristling blade swinging in a flaying motion, and Holland felt the red burn clean through his sternum and then shear his head clean off. In his last moments of conscious observation, he saw the priest-whale impossibly lift his discarded head to eye level in its little dorsal flipper, and heard it religiously whisper: “squeak squeak squeaaaaak. Squeak…. S Q U E A K.” He wasn’t sure what it meant, but it sounded pretty damn profound.

The end.

tap tap

I only have to write two pages fill them up with something anything as long as substance is there so what will I type frankly I don’t care and no cheating no double spacing no returns and no rereads for pacing just keep racing forward bound until your done or at least proud so just keep typing clicking loud because your rules are cracking down and even if you just make shit at least you’re the creator of it that is of course opposed to consumer whose fortunes will fail him sooner mouth at the end of the conveyor belt the taste now upon him is a shitty hand to be dealt and yes that’s a pun in a very long sentence one grammatically flawed but that is intended because this is a flow of consciousness that happens to kind of rhyme I mean not really but look at the time all of this typing in under five minutes I spelled out a number to take up more space and paused for a minute to contemplate the rate of this pace of this note to myself in the future it might be amusing or embarrassing depending on my mood this is how I talk right now dude, relax there’s a comma for you chill out don’t have a conniption everyone’s a novice starting out whether at a desk or in the kitchen and here I am in the latter, cooking up a piece, trying to have a semblance of sense but I’m running out of content fast I’m worried that this will not last not even a half a page in and I’m fading past all known boundaries in writing the 4th wall is crushed cause I said it in writing so I think I’m going to stop this shit now, see look the page isn’t blank anymore, wow! And there you went and did it you ended the sentences and due to the no re-read policy its all fucked now so ptew ptew wash out your mouth with soap now go write a short story about the pope.

rough rough

I turn and glare at the hateful noise behind me. That bellowing sniffing from lungs five times larger than my own. There he sites on atop a misshapen animal skin, towering above me, smiling with his flat pink devil mouth, amused by my frustration. I return by focus to my torment, a small bottom weighted sphere with a tiny portal that, on rare occasion, ejects infinitesimal parcels of hard refined food. It is delicious. Its smell beckons insanity. I am so hungry. Always hungry. I would eat and eat until I died. The stomach is never sated. When it rejects my gifts it is a mere suggestion to taste it once again. I desperately class at the small device. I twist it and turn it and nothing happens. I know some odd combination of an infinite number of movements triggers it, rewards are never grated for inaction. Pushing it along the ground, then picking it up and dropping it. The rigid surface never yielding. Indented and bruised by my abuse, scuffed and scared by teeth and nails. My desperate attempts all ending in disappointment; until suddenly, just as I near surrender, it drops a morsel. My pulse races, and leaping upon it, I swallow it whole, not pausing, desperately wanted another, I shake the ball. Nothing. I swat it, nothing. My arms growing weary after an hour of this game. Lying my smoldering body on the cool floor I clutch the ball close to me. If it leaves my sight he will take it from me, and merely laugh when I weep in desperate protest or attempt some futile retaliation. He is still sitting on his death throne, eyeing me precociously, plotting some new misdeed, some new means of torture. Having no words he would understand, I simply growl like a mere animal, and fall asleep.

Widower

In the style of Thomas Hardy’s The Voice

I have touched her seen her too

All I know of her is past

The lingering aura never new

The satisfaction never to last

 

I feel her texture in the sheets

See her dance out my eye’s corner

But my hand she never meets

The senses fail a mourner

 

No one there beside me yet I push against her still

No muse to inspire me yet her beauty fills my page

Cold absence a reminder that I never got my fill

Flushed with heat and anger, filled with fruitless rage

 

Stare at our reflection

She is absent from the frame

Though she now escapes all true detection

I still love her all the same

The Words Come Out All Wrong

Trying to say
The things that mean the most to me

But I’m full of cliché poetry

Other people’s doggerel

All my metaphors the same

 

Always that one cadence

From some song I thought contagious

I wish I had had better taste

Back in the day

Nymph

She has a beautiful villainous smile

I can see her in black

Even a grimace framed in her lips would be seductive

Teeth for biting

A pink lower lip

A gesture that forces a catch in the suitors throat

 

I am compelled by some force within me

Some nauseating need

To see her mouth pursed with disapproving amusement

Her chin recessed in supplication

Her cheeks flushed with passion

 

To feel her hands gliding across me

Smooth gestures easing my worried soul

Fingers trembling as if in a stream

Eyes fixed and screaming intentions

 

To draw her near

The sand meeting the ocean

Fall through my fingers

Let time forget us

I Want a Fire

Fire.

I want a fire.

I need something burning under me that doesn’t need kindling every goddam morning. I don’t need a friend nor any compatriot. I don’t need a role model or a parent figure to tell me how to live my life or what to do.

I need a drive that will force me into the icy water to stave off the pain of the burning, to let comfort only reach me when I am buried in extremes. I need a hunger or passion. A dedication. Some ever-present thought to keep me busy, some torment to keep my mouth wet. Some temptation so endearing that my mind can never stray from whatever accomplishment I put before it. I want to be a valuable person. Intrinsically so.

I want to be a powerful person. Intrinsically so. Stripped of all money all social contacts, everything that I lean upon I want to till stand strong. No matter if I am ugly, if I am weak, crippled by pain or by weapon. No matter if I am stupid or forgetful, wracked by doubt and plagued with indecision.

I want to be, and indeed I will be strong.

I want a fire.

I will not fall again.

This is the man I want to be.

One who overcomes his cowardice and backs down for nothing. I want to be fearless. I want to have an incredible pain threshold because my unsayable determination’s unwillingness to give into any will other than my own.

I want to have complete control of my functions always. To take everything in stride, to suffer no fools, to seek no council with blind men. I want to be a man that others would look up to did they not fear him.

I want to learn to love pain’s excesses. To see at all times the trial that it presents. I want most of all to be capable of surmounting this obstacle, and any other.

I want to be deformed by scars that are testament to my strength, to not be decorated by the trivial black lines of losers, but to have my life written on my skin. Not in some purposeful ritual, but to live a life that leaves its mark on my body, that takes its toll on my features. A life that hardens me.

I want a fire.

I want to be a hard man, not a clown, gibbering and smirking like a fool. I am a clown.

So how do I throw off my clownish persona? How do I discard what I am and pick up another? How do I keep a resolution in my mind and not fall back?

They tell me I simply must learn to fall well but I believe they have failed in instructing me how to stay on the horse, how to grip and strain. The more I fail the deeper the trench grows and the greater the struggle it is to get back up.

I am tired of getting back up.

I want to stand firm and never fall again.

LET them break my legs from under me and my will preserve me.

Even if I fall in body my spirit remaining.

I want such a indominable power to course through me that such is their description of me when I face my enemies, when I look them in the eyes.

Not mere courage, not mere virtue, but raw unbridled power.

I want a fire.

Priest

Archways hallowed

Dimly lit

From the confessional a quiet fit

Church assailed

Girl seeking shelter

From the hand of cards, God help her

Sins are spoken

Penance due

But absolutions don’t sing true

The alter christos

Blasphemous saint

His false words a soulful taint

A stolen place

An unearned roll

And on the flock it takes its toll

Fake his message

In foreign tongue

And from the pockets all coin wrung

Poem – Prisoner

I the prisoner.

All I’ve known is the yellow glow

Electric luminescence

Boards that crack and floor that creeks

Pain a constant presence

My cold damp cell

My living hell

No words express

I know none

My broken legs

The taste of eggs

A smiles just

An empty reaction

If I remembered someone

Other than my father grandfather

If there was another man alive in the

World I’d beg for salvation

I can’t stand living

But for some reason I refuse to die

I wax and wane a battered flame

Bereft by wind but still alive

But still alive no one’s coming

But still alive no one’s coming to save me

I’m big enough to wear chains

Despite the agony I grow