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."
Spider fingers and cobra kissesI fell in love with a boy who was mute, never said a word. His eyes, cobalt and iridescent and other-worldly, seemed to have to do all the explaining, his spider fingers, skeletal and stretched, had to do all the gestures, pointing at this, reaching for that. Life with him was like one never-ending game of charades and his turn was never over, he could never sit down and watch someone else fumble with how to express something without words. He had taught himself, had studied his audiences over the years and knew how to get everything across with minimal confusion, could make shapes with his hands, could draw on restaurant napkins, could pull his face into caricatures of emotions.
I met him in a bar, centre of a crowd, contorting his mouth into the widest of grins, arching his eyebrows like open umbrellas. I couldn’t understand how he could keep so many strangers so enthralled without saying a word, but then I started watching him and I understood. He spoke a higher language, coul
seventeenI watch her as I bite the skin on my lips. She picks up the cup languidly, fingers brushing against polystyrene. Her eyes drift upwards and she touches her mouth to the lid.
"You know," she puts the cup back down on the tarmac, runs her hands through her dirty hair. "When you're alone for long enough, you start to get this feeling inside. Like your bones are opening and everything inside them is spilling out."
My gaze shifts down towards her hands and she places them in her lap. I notice how the streetlights are tinging everything yellow, flickering every so often, plunging us into complete darkness. It makes me feel like I'm suffocating, but I don't think she realises. I wedge my chin between my knees.
"You've got dirt on your shoes."
In my peripheral vision, I see her eyes sink down to her muddy boots.
"Yeah," she says. "I know."
"Why are we sitting in the middle of the road at two in the morning?"
"Because we can."
I exhale quietly and I can feel the Ju
The Cat Comes BackIt’s strange sometimes how going back to places you have not visited for years make memories come back, even if the buildings or the landscape has changed completely. I can’t go back to the West End of Newcastle, for example, without remembering the large tower blocks that used to be there. They were demolished years ago, but I can still see them.
Why am I thinking about this? Well, a few weeks ago I was in Great Yarmouth, and as I walked to an appointment I passed a house that had a cafe in the downstairs part. It was a nice enough cafe, but I remembered when I visited it nearly forty years ago – at that time what is now a cafe was actually a flat, and the reason I remember it was the two charming ladies I was surprised to find in residence when I visited.
I had seen through the open window they had great taste in furnishing and paintings – so I presumed they would have similar taste in smaller, more portable objects. So I nipped a
tGB || Changes[ Yellow-Air | Linken | Council of Spirits ]
Like the rest of his tribe, he had followed their leader in his trance. It didn't surprise him to find the other tribes and their Silvers, too, had arrived at the Council of Spirits, where the Silver-Light sat, almost as if she had been waiting. Linken stayed close to his father, his heart pounding in his chest. But Seraphiel had moved away from him without a word, joining the other Silvers in the center. The tom had opened his mouth to call out to him, but as he glanced at all the leaders with their eyes aglow with silver, his words became lost.
The Spirits are here.
Whatever security he so briefly felt however, vanished. The silver glow from the leaders eyes enveloped them all as one, the eerie glow casting strange, lanky shadows around the gathered tribes. The glow steadily grew brighter, until at last even Linken in all his stubbornness was forced to avert his dark eyes and sq
All For NowIn a blink, he was gone.
Just like that, the threat I had been preparing for my entire life disappeared- again.
You'd think I would be used to it by now. I'm not. It still pisses me off how he's able to do that.
Why can't I do that? Or, at least why can't I freakin' poof to wherever he goes to regain his strength tenfold? Yeah, tenfold; like I wasn't already scraping by- surviving by the skin of my teeth whenever I fought him. He always has to come back stronger than before. Know why? 'Cause he can. He's invincible, or so he says. . .
I'll be honest when I say I'm starting to believe it.
Okay, so he isn't the only one who hulks-out after having the crap beat out of them. I've pulled that plenty of times, but of course I nearly die because my body isn't ready to contain and control so much power at onc
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."