the living are the flesh and blood
ghosts of the dead
shouting nervously and
scaring the silent buried.
we'll talk about it when there's time
and gray enough to cover
years of skin
stretched too thin
over the unspoken.
dead moss remembers the sun that caressed
and the piss of baby deer,
and layers of dead butterflies,
and the tall trees turned to soot
as it passes back
i spat wine and black globs
became ash became ants streaming
out of toilets and pooling
a black mass glistening and
writhing like the alien from Alien,
threatening without hate.
oh frightening mass:
i consented to fuck you
but forbade you touch my feet.
sit outside and stare at a suit. look
into their eyes and see how they fail
to see you. try to think of them naked
but remember that would kill them. see
through them and into time and see how
little they've changed: ahead and behind
the suit is just
death and wealth
death and wealth
death and wealth
death and wealth
over the earth like
pats of continental breakfast butter
grabbed by the handful and stripped,
crinkled gold discarded.
do not allow yourself
to become distracted.
distraction is as deadly
as a white man.
all i want is to piss
alone on this mountain away from rude teens
and arguments about hash tags.
i'm not sure how to summarize your day in
like the trees and rocks and
flowers prematurely blooming
i don't love or understand you but
i at least accept you.
suggested hash tags for your day:
hash tag i'll be dead one day
hash tag i hope my body is fodder for flowers one day
hash tag my life is a foil for the steadfast infinity of rocks
hash tag my god is my self and it will die one day too
hash tag when i feel a soreness in my limbs i feel a particular kind of loneliness i can't digitally convey
hash tag i have at least two copies of every friend and i no longer know which copy truly loves me
hash tag great day outdoors
i was challenged to write a poem about a sentient car so uh here you go
my mother: robot shrill drilling my parts together
while dad and dad and dad and dad
made sinew out of molten metal.
out of the belched black smoke
of a factory womb i rolled
onto trailers overpacked with
siblings only i could see.
i can't forget the smiles
of the men gleaming cold
on showfloor after showfloor eager
to usher another stranger
you found me and i hated you.
you ground me down and stared through me
and only at me to judge and pick and re-
configure. my insides boiled over
at the whim of your careless stomp.
i sang the songs you taught me strangled
over wires and wanted to spit them out.
i saw the
i knew fear and joy and you,
then, more intimately than ever: i held you in
at peace now i rest your tool no longer.
in pieces i am whole; in pieces i am total.
i've burnt every memory onto dollar store
cd-rs and around my body built walls like
snake skin into an upright coffin.
blue and purple are the imperfect reflections i see
of my face on every side and every angle.
in here i am deprived of everything but
myself. i'm in love with false narratives
and dead dreams staring back at me perfectly
preserved but irrationally written.
to molt: i cut the corners of my mouth
and slide each disc in scratching lines
of misperception with my teeth on top and bottom.
my stomach, sick with corrupted checksums, waits to
regurgitate lossy thoughts again tomorrow.
oh, sweet avenger:
fist my face and pull out my anxieties tarp-wrapped like a river corpse and
mashed together like black mold balled up by shaking fingers.
rub it on the walls and write a poem that smothers
this place with inner filth like waterboarding in reverse
and in slow motion.
now, touch your lips to mine.
shotgun the fetid air from my lungs and
transmute it into perfume designed
by one who loves scent
in the way only a blind person can:
i will love myself like that one day.
you took my picture and gave me a soul.
you put it on facebook,
but it was a ghoul soul decayed
and rotted upon upload.
pitch over your pinterest and pour me out:
i am not your arts and crafts,
i am not your beautiful wedding,
i am not your year in review.
delete my tweets from your computer:
i don't want to be in you.
take out your disks and ram
and disembowel them.
bury out back the remnants
upside down backwards and re-
but leave me on your g plus page
empty and sepulchral
for google bots to grope and pull,
parsing nothing but mistakes.
In 2014 I was born
And one hundred years later
Cut my brain and trace
The strata of radio signals
Layered deeper than the ocean.
Age my flesh by the layers of
Grime and smog and peer
Through my eyes to study distortions
Burned and worn by the rivulets
Of twenty four seven news cycles.
Trace on my fingertips the keys I have
Caressed from birth.
Scatter my bones like birdseed
Across the landfills and the wreckage
That they might find the screens that once told me
I was loved.
I got a new job
As a head,
Severed and sitting
At the top of the lighthouse.
I'd love it if
You came to see me, just
Click up the spiral staircase for
Seven screens and, oh
Make sure you got the iron key
By trading the nightcraft amulet
For the bag of gray walnuts to feed
To the many-headed hydra you caught
With the gleaming rainbow flower plucked
From the hair of the principal antagonist
Whom you taunted with the despairing
Sandals you got from the blithering knave
Who was really your undead son
From the future.
They could fire me, though,
If I make it too easy to find
The silver statuette you might need
To get across the flaming gorge. Really,
I don't think it's in the chest behind me,
Nor do I think the lock can be picked
With the metacarpal hidden beneath me.
I didn't care for the other
Players who made it up here,
So I saved my best dialog tree
take me as you would an oak:
soak my limbs in lavender
and hew them with a golden sickle.
hang my eyes with mistletoe.
pull out my ribs in pieces
and cast lots on green earth
dream of me inside your oxen
bigger than the boughs
that spread above in darkness
masking moonlight and our stars
crossed by iron crossed by bronze
and the falling pattern of bones
torn gently from my hands.
meet me in the bog
beyond time where perceptions murky
swirl slowly touched not by wind
but by staves pushed half
heartedly by the bearded men stuck
there on solid ground.
there is a myth that humans don't grow hair.
instead, our skins are bat wings
showing arteries that trace
maps to nowhere.
if all our blood was collected
would it be greater than the ocean?
though we build statues ever higher,
our refuse outstrips
the science we've neglected.
when quiet space we do conquer
what truly have we won?
to Mars though a ship may spring
what internal peace can we sequester?
with one hand on the keyboard,
the screen had cleared:
death did not come.
he sounded bored.
the nodal point was gone,
and he knew why.
the white screens behind him
said he knew the code
even though nothing was lit.
she would have said
to not just pound a keyboard.
some aren't, said Yoke,
from these to emanate
their cries echoed dismay
“We are sure that he cannot reincarnate.”
nervous laughter echoed through the bay.
the other two were Exeter
they felt the double strain and tug;
he will be there next to her,
the treacherous line smug.
her very choice:
she’ll read joyce
on the anniversary.
half choked with sewer gas
none save the rats will pass.
Jupiter shall emerge
with grace and tap gold whisky from her crystal keg
and see the whole man converge
cutting the lashing of his waterproof leg.
Every incident should have some bearing on the denouement.
have you ever seen a ghost?
every fiction should have some bearing on our denouement.
what was his proudest boast?
blabbing by rote
an exceptional touch
has been slightly torn or wounded in the throat.
fingers say too much.
pile the words of the earth
to protect him and teach him his worth
"upon the yellow corpses do our towers rise and rise and rise above the aqyalor
of new America. for our success we are indebted, indebted tobrhose pathetic
sufferers of the pwlliw lpuage, the freezing pus that erects from even the
most sloven wastrel a glowiwnfomument to superior city. to these glownf ranks
we sibmitbour thanks : more beautiful than the sun through swollen amber are
your svrifices to our beautiful we'll being. in your name we shut and close our
canyon only to the deserving, the golden ppnes, we children of the saggrpn
Gerald listened patiently for the ends of the speech. he hadbhewrd it many
times before. .. in both x and y axes. everyevel of 0Proxy 5 had he suffered
rgroiuh the belted eulogy for crushed castes past. her lad listened, though z
for any change that mightbjndicteban change in policy or thiyht at the high
levels of Prkmixa 4 governance. Gerald was a journalist. he didn't use this
label for himself, though: he oewferrd the term indroseer. it had a better ring
to iit tjlhan the baggagebladdeb term from the decadent 21st. geeld had a line
o some fix til. from the late 20th before things got tooxhec yay. among the
religious tracts and sceilrurea he kept the elikwa of zadign, givson,
Stephenson, Tucker, sick: those chriomed vuSionraorwa who forsaaw what he'd be
zavatia paused. finally, something outside of bimsf bad distracted him from the
diawaranfe and probable death of Bentley. a grand specimen of the yellow
plague, fully 5 meters tall, dominated the gorizo. ahead of his path. it was he
reckoned the second highest he'd ever seen.
zachatua inahibsd monuments of similar grandeur in the golden city but of
course not sculpted from a nocius death like the body here. those of the golden
city would have something to erect monuments too, after all: they have managed
to survive the olgye and been thrive in this, most hostile of plabets, Venus 2.
we turned our eyes to the moon and
the clouds stopped,
the moon an ugly sun obscured.
our eyes are dead, all seeing
the dream that repeats and will
one day replay not over green
but gray when us and them
are cavities, open to space.
linked to me and back,
my spine is drawn and we
don't know yet gray from green
or one from another.
the blue blanket drawn lazily
moves on: slipping, falling,
crumpling from the bed.
a besieged hot aqueduct
died soon after
the failed conquest of the Celibate
sex will be slaughtered
still to be unraveled.
Harry's son nodded.
Three columns and two arches.
GLORY MAY NOT LAST.
when words will not do
undermine my suffering
with just a flower
a brown constellation
among black night-hairs
leads not to undiscovered lands
but rather the same
I've come to expect.
Hamilton, Richard. Journal Fragment. c. 1912. Miskatonic University.
"I have stolen a few moments for reflection in my quarters at a countryside inn. I will take this chance to record some thoughts so as not to lose any detail of the day's events in a future recounting.
Today, the true nature of my curious benefactor was revealed. It is one month after entering into residence with Prof. Pope and, this evening, I could no longer suppress my interest in the sounds emanating once again from the underground levels of his mansion.
The sounds were simultaneously mechanical and animal in nature. I had questioned the servants numerous times, but they dismissed it as a mysterious quirk of the house's antiquated heating system.
'Steam and gears,' they'd say. 'Nothing more.' This explanation did not sit well with me. The sounds were the root of many sleepless nights and I soon took to pacing the hallways when their volume was at an apex.
It was during one of these nightly walks that I first noticed the ajar door of Prof. Pope's bedroom. Wondering if he, too, was disturbed by the sounds, I respectfully knocked on the door. Hearing no answer, I peeked inside. He was not there, and my subsequent exploration of the premises found him nowhere. His automobile, however, was firmly situated on the grounds and there were no signs of his departure.
Again and again I noted this correlation: on nights when the sounds could be heard throughout the mansion, Prof. Pope was nowhere to be found. I became determined to uncover the source of these nightly terrors and, tonight, finally mustered the courage to explore the Professor's study in the dead of night.
I discovered nothing unusual in Prof. Pope's papers and library–just books on electro-mechanical studies and drafts of academic publications. What I did notice was that, when I stood at his desk in front of his chair, the grating, shrill noises from below were slightly louder. I felt ridiculous doing it, but I put my head below the lip of his desk. There, I discovered with horror that the sounds seemed to be coming from directly below me.
I felt the floor with my fingers, seeking out seams or hinges. Indeed, I found an edge that I could only so slightly wedge my fingers under. Pulling upwards I was assaulted by the noise in a dimension hitherto unfelt as it poured forth from an opening in the floor. It sounded as though a dry, dead leaf was being dragged over broken glass in a stone basin, amplified one thousand fold. A low rumbling, which seemed to threaten the very foundations of the planet, resonated in my breast.
Somehow, I became aware of someone coming towards the study. A light was growing in the hallway outside the room. I knew that I would be promptly escorted away–or worse–for prying as I was, and in a panic I opened the panel the rest of the way to escape. A dark, grimy staircase awaited me, pitched in darkness. I plunged downwards, pulling the panel shut behind me, more terrified of the sounds enveloping me than I was of the pitch dark and smell of decay.
The sounds became deafening as I descended. I lost count of the steps as I walked and before long I could think of nothing but the noise. I felt as though I were but a vessel for the awful sound, suspended over a chasm of infinite depth. This image so distracted me I lost my footing, and tumbled the rest of the way down the stairs. Luckily, it wasn’t far, but I came crashing into a heavy wooden door at the foot of the steps.
In the room within which I came to rest, the noise was unbearable. I could pick out human screams, now, amongst the nightmarish racket I have already described. My eyes adjusted to the light and I could see the back of Prof. Pope, hunched over a large table. On it lay all manner of wires, machines, and devices, only the most basic of which I recognized from my studies. Beyond the table was a seething mass seeming to consist of nothing but jagged edges of light. It appeared to revolve in mid-air, and, when I looked about in panic, I realized it was surrounded in a semi-circle by human forms strapped onto tables. The poor souls trapped on the beds were writhing and screaming what sounded like glossolalia.
I could think of nothing now but ending the terrible sounds, which in my maddened state I could not disambiguate from the hideous mass in the center of the room. I picked up a heavy chair resting against the wall behind the professor–who was completely absorbed in his dials, knobs, and switches–and lobbed it with all my might at the heart of his bed of spidery wires.
Prof. Pope's equipment was torn apart and strewn across the floor. The seething, jagged orb began shaking violently. Before it dissipated completely, I could discern within the orb hundreds of iris-less eyes widening and staring with fury. They folded over themselves with a flash as the orb finally disappeared.
I did not wait to see the professor's reaction. I paused only long enough to retrieve a thick, lone manuscript from a table adjacent the workbench and then fled back up the stairs and out of the mansion, knocking past agitated servants.
This inn was the first establishment far enough away from the professor's mansion in which I felt safe. I made it there by luck after receiving a ride from some gracious folk headed towards the city. I could hardly believe what I read in Prof. Pope's manuscript, but the sights I had seen that evening compelled me to read on.
Apparently, his interest in telegraphy, electro-mechanical engineering, and radio had a singular purpose: to somehow invite an ancient being into our modern world. The professor refers to it in varying ways, but I have copied the most frequently used characters: Qb'ath'agu. It was unclear whether this name represented the dreadful noise that plagued Prof. Pope's mansion or the amorphous, jagged orb. Whichever, the effect such a being would have on the world around it was obvious: chaos, madness, and destruction.
As soon as I'm able to get through, I intend to alert the authorities to the professor's activities.
For now, I will try and rest."
pink blossoms and urine reek
better than a car
The bodily heat falls very rapidly.
"It's my lungs I'm worried about," Mary said.
Gabriel, why did you ever set your heart on me?
You had charge of the funeral arrangements.
There was no tribute but their tears.
You had charge of the funeral arrangements.
[Sidenote: Result of the contest.]
He did not want to let Renovales go.
But the contest irritated the king.
That husky young boy was her son.
"Did they tell you, Mariano?
She must stay at home and work for others."
dirty and screaming
a metallic snake from hell
marta train goes by
Although the cargo was taken out,
it was after it had been in the water.
more than one half months.
Updated editions will replace the previous one-
the old editions will be renamed.
The soliders were ordered not to allow him
either bed, food, or drink.