In Preparation for the Great Robot WarsThe sun which glints off steel and chrome
Refracted by the superdome
Constricts the pupils of professor
Who teaches bolts and volts and ohm
Through their masks the students wonder
of grassy knolls, ravines asunder
Geology’s of no import
While skies are loud with robot thunder
Gerund and interabang?
Of utile ore there lies the gangue
We learn the language of the drill
and iron claw with copper tang
We train our students by the score
to make scrap of the auto-corps
and extirpate our android fate
In measures for the robot war
A Poem Anent EvilTo balance such dissymmetry
Was fated here soliloquy
(as pigeon is by name a dove,
and philters that by altar wine )
His mingling with this verse, thereof
Makes dissonant polyphony.
Love-pinkened cheek and petal’d prose
(chemical by Bodenstein)
By bloom-robbed breast Hegemone’s
O, mercy for the compass rose !
For East of Here lies Valentine.
Shattered Stories: Lovesick On that fateful night, Fitzwilliam donned his hat of tinfoil, which threw a becoming shadow over his mild features; fixed it at a rakish angle, and stepped outside. Wheatley, the butler, opened a Chinese umbrella to shelter his master, though it was not raining. The waning sun, which stained the landscape port wine, was still quite in danger of ruining Fitzwilliam’s peaches-and-cream complexion. Fitzwilliam was led to his stallion by the butler, all parties presently looking blue as bottles cast beneath the tinted light of the parasol. Wheatley mounted the saddle with style and offered his unemployed hand to Fitzwilliam. The smartly-dressed youth squirmed his way up the horse’s great side, struggling not to get the horse’s horsiness all over his dinner jacket. Nothing spoiled a party quite like the perfume of topical flea medicine layered with laudanum, of which the latter Fitzwilliam dabbed behind his ears for special occasions.
As the noble
Ann Won't EatEmbracing your cello, you take up less space
Than the hollow-boned spruce, bow firm and melodic,
Your hair falling out
All over the strings.
Happy concertos hang on the rafters
Just as you yearned for yourself
A less-permanent proxy for you;
Watching and smiling,
The wooden beams modelling
What we pine for, and though you decline
A ticket to the theater,
Maybe it's possible you can
Find laughter here on the ground-
Because it's funny, like we say all the time
We can't even feed ourselves
How were you supposed to feed the baby?
And maybe it was rape,
But how pure were you to begin with?
You still love him, and
You can't undo that like
He undid you.
It's becoming clearer to me these days
That I won't see you again
Just as I said
Though you didn't really believe that,
It hurts when you're wrong.
So carve your arm up, I love you,
I dare you.
And callous your
Because maybe it's not so flawed
Because wrong can be measured in degrees
Like the cold of your
Winter SweetEyes aglaze; digits icing over
With death in the periphery
An avalanche of downy notes
Flutter by on paper motes
We make snow angels in the dusk
And cake ourselves with frosting coats
AnorexiaOpaque as ocean
Heavy as feather-
Tied to the tether.
Veins that chain
Rip at the wrist!
Bones that bind
Fingers in fist.
For what I can't be-
A soul that can love
What eyes cannot see!
Beast in the KingdomMy watch, a testament to Time, ticks tenaciously. The delicate click of teeth meeting tooth; the beat of a miniature heart. A resonance I recognize from elsewhere-
The mouse lay shivering in the warmth of my palm
The miniscule vessels, chambers, and veins; struggling to pump the precious fluid that slows with every life-shattering breath.
Yes, it is-undoubtedly-the insignificant vibrations of the mouse's beating heart that sound so alike to the timepiece that touches my very veins- both ticking down the time they have left; becoming unwound.
Finding"I wanted nothing more than to grab the envelope and tear it open violently. Nothing has been more excruciating, in my sixty-odd years of existence, than watching Irene unhurriedly study the translucent cerulean envelope, black ink penetrating the waxy paper in places, adorned with stamps of faces marred by the Postal Service. Upon opening the letter, we understand we'd been nothing more than naïve children. We were pawns, utterly disposable."
Helena"I used to wonder, with childlike curiosity, if her hair burned her ears and neck if it were to go unwashed too long. Only on Sunday night, when she bathed, I was convinced the fire was quenched. When she thought no-one was looking, she'd pull out her tortoiseshell hairpins and let her auburn hair flicker in the dimming summer light; we watched, fascinated, through the age-warped windowpanes as they silhouetted a widow aflame."
TGB - LostShe'd been gone from the Tribes for near a season cycle now and the weight of years that hadn't yet passed pressed heavy on her shoulders.
Her nights were spent remembering and wishing and wanting for things she was incapable of giving, of having. Commitment. The idea was foreign to her and as much as she longed for it, longed to call Idek hers and for Raven to call her mine, Arya knew that she would never be able to settle - to stay and stagnate. Even as a kit she'd been restless and roaming well before her other siblings had begun to walk. There was something about her that seemed desperate to move, to see.
But, still, she longed.
Her pawsteps were quiet and though her mind was distracted she would know his tell-tale scent anywhere - thick and heady, it was a scent Arya had grown to associate with safe. She stilled in her wandering as Idek came into view and frowned as she noted the slump in his shoulders, the near desolate way he carried himself. He lacked
Midnight Cravings"I need to do my homework"
"I know but,"
"Oh come on, it's past midnight!"
More like past time to eat chocolate.
You should probably fix that...
"I have five sentences left."
Five sentences about chocolate?
Then they can be done after we get back from getting chocolate.
"I'd have to drive all the way to the gas station..."
"That's a ten minute drive."
"It's past midnight!"
"I need to finish this essay."
But! You also need chocolate!
More PleaseDesire (verb)
- to wish or long for; crave; want
What do I desire most?
What do I wish upon a star for?
What does my heart long for?
What is it that I crave more than pizza?
What is it that I am in want of?
For most people, this might be a difficult question. It may take some thought - a few hours, days, weeks, even. Go on, try it. Decide on the one thing that you yearn for more than anything else you could possibly ever want. What is it? Money? Love? Power?
I know my answer. I've known it since I was little.
I want fat. To be fat. To love fat. To have and to hold fat. To be thick and never thin. Big and only growing bigger. Since that first big belly I saw when I was four years old, I've been incredibly jealous, and wanted nothing else but my own. Now I have one, but it isn't big enough.
When I think of being fat, I don't think of a little extra pudginess here and there, like I have at this moment. Instead, I think of an elephantine frame that dominates a king-size bed, breaks the met
Writing Practice: Five Senses--Kenneth Young
What does Kenneth SOUND like?
Kenneth has a very down-to-Earth, informal way of speaking most of the time, even when he's trying to be serious, and has sort of a goofy, self-deprecating sense of humor. Though you would expect his voice to be deep and Schwarzenegger-like thanks to his huge musculature, he's actually more in the middle, though his voice gets a bit higher when he's over-excited or nervous. He also has an infectious and almost awkward-sounding laugh. It's actually been really difficult pinning down the perfect voice actor for Kenneth, though; I've junked at least 4 people who I've considered over the years. But I guess to give kind of an idea of his voice, I'd go with Chris Pratt for now, or Nathan Fillion as someone helpfully suggested.
What does Kenneth SMELL like?
Kenneth's smell is usually a combination of three things: Pert 2 in 1 Shampoo and Conditioner, Irish Spring bar soap, and either Right Guard
Stars / The Moth / Just DanceSimply Red - Stars
He walked by without a care, but several. To his credit, none were romantic in nature; the world offered enough variety in worries to leave the heart unbothered. That girl, now she was a different story. How hard the thought of him would make her shake! Actually facing him demanded courage she hadn't yet developed, and doubted she ever would. What reality can't bring, fiction provides in spades, and one day, her imagination caused her to wonder...What if by mere whim of destiny, she ended up in his arms? All of a sudden, without previous warning, without any intervention from either of them. That he'd find himself holding her body, which would no longer be shaking. No, if that ever happened, she'd be too petrified to make the slightest move. But at least he could see her, as he carried the weight of emotions turned heavier everyday, and perhaps words wouldn't be needed. Maybe all he needed to know could be derived from that face. Her simply red face.
* * * * *
Georgia, 1946"Damp night air and hot summer fear. Looking through the crosshairs while my face caught fire. Flex, shudder, pull, fall. Dust, moonlight, blood. The walk home though the long grass is unbearably uneventful. No serpent to bite or scorpion to sting. Just guilt, silence, dread. Hiss, hiss, the grass screams and clings to your ankles."