The visible spectrum of everything may alarm you, but don't become hideous above all, don't be horrid, or crowd-like. The swans, graceful brutes, are watching, testing. Be as knee deep waters for them and drown your ugliness there, or at least bury it in the mud to make some brine shrimp happy. Too many among the every and all try to conceal their unfortunate faces by sprouting toadstools, mustaches... These are edible, impermanent schisms while the swans swim everlasting; brutal things of beauty.
Honored Guest/Host of Honor by TheBloodWriter, literature
Literature
Honored Guest/Host of Honor
August chimes in like a bell, or a blue jay, makes little fuss, despite summer and cools the morning; elfishly with the smell of rain the shape of clouds.
Blood flows. This ancient fetish grows. A moments lapse is all it takes' it crows. something in the wings shakes, like death throes. Wherever you were a moment before now it's here you wake, cold and spotlit on an antique floor, while the clock slows and a faint heart begins to quake. Echoes. Sounds to missing visions that your ears abhor. This is what most men can't endure. The brightness dims, the lights go low. For this awful tension there is no cure; but to bargain for more and break.
I seek to break convictions that have been laid upon me like bands of iron, lengths of clinking chain. Marley’s ghost weighs less than me, on certain grim, disturbing hours of left to myself. I want to be the me I was born to be. Born to be. Born. Why I wasn’t born for anything (Clotho disagrees, stretching my feelings taut between each forefinger and each dainty thumb. She plucks me and I thrum). You are a lost notion of yourself. Coming to. A part of you is coming through. There was an attic once. There was a basement space. There was a hole in the wall. There was an ancient wagon trunk. Pull yourself through. Let go. They shown in undimming beauty, like a star of evening dressed in sterling and a warm hoodie with steady, ursine eyes that flame and pulse in a game of night-dark bewitching blue. Their lips invite you and as you are drawn in they recede, like a sound, they recline and make space there beside them on the hill. The wet grass, those dark clouds obscure the sky and
There is nothing to be amused by just get used to the new sky. It is up up up and so am I. When you say I am troubled Do you think I will crumble? Will the fetters that hold me be made into rubble? Shall the fall down then slay me? An imposed unmaking? A pretense at morals we're only just faking. So you finally should see That you are troubled by me I make up monsters and then they go free. You send me red daisies but such tokens are weighty when carried by eagles who seek me out daily. This drip drop goes on Till the end of the song that you keep on singing to the moody python yet if you just quit have done with all it why then I'll look you up with a grin that won't fit I'll walk through the space which you used to replace and the sun from the glass of the sky I'll efface.
I don't feel gorgeous anymore I am letting myself down by feeling that way but I can't be upbeat about it without beating myself up and I am still raw in some places any slip could be hilt deep before I know it I feel like a ripped shirt, I am running home to change isolation is just so easy, it is the walls we put up castle building, dungeon delving, locked and stocked with traps I am, monsters, monstrous, low-fi by design. Just gimmicks, just a frankly fraying hand, extending reaching out, offering peace to a place I am no longer I'll be at my work bench just a moment more I'll be: stay busy, and upbeat I'll be: i'll keep, everything's fine I'll be: delaying some inevitable
Is this sin? To know the heights, the scaffolds of bitter bark the thorn lodged within you are paying for your knowledge with each bite but you are riveted, eyes alive to the sky there is no going down there is no far off beseeching cry it is only you this far from ground and they can only be best pleased when you decide just what you've found.
Oh my little one your fuss, is pure delight my tame one, my summer sun rapping on my window every night begging me to let you in with small heartbeats, a snag toothed grin you who leave little cuts of meat outside, familiar each time who saved me one year, in the deep dark unrelenting july you remembered me just the way I loved to be how could I ever do other than let you go free
Climbing Out the Temple by TheBloodWriter, literature
Literature
Climbing Out the Temple
Butter knife in hand I aim to
Be buried up to my cheeks in
Jolly Cracker Jack tears rolling
Aimlessly down the ugly drain
A harrowing mess of a person
Stands, strands tugging, fighting
For seeming being a lost being
The head, with a snap shuts
Everything is under order
Fingers pinched in the car door
Clash of your temple pillar
Holds aloft the rent open roof.
The visible spectrum of everything may alarm you, but don't become hideous above all, don't be horrid, or crowd-like. The swans, graceful brutes, are watching, testing. Be as knee deep waters for them and drown your ugliness there, or at least bury it in the mud to make some brine shrimp happy. Too many among the every and all try to conceal their unfortunate faces by sprouting toadstools, mustaches... These are edible, impermanent schisms while the swans swim everlasting; brutal things of beauty.
Honored Guest/Host of Honor by TheBloodWriter, literature
Literature
Honored Guest/Host of Honor
August chimes in like a bell, or a blue jay, makes little fuss, despite summer and cools the morning; elfishly with the smell of rain the shape of clouds.
Blood flows. This ancient fetish grows. A moments lapse is all it takes' it crows. something in the wings shakes, like death throes. Wherever you were a moment before now it's here you wake, cold and spotlit on an antique floor, while the clock slows and a faint heart begins to quake. Echoes. Sounds to missing visions that your ears abhor. This is what most men can't endure. The brightness dims, the lights go low. For this awful tension there is no cure; but to bargain for more and break.
They have overturned.
Every day is hot, and any scent of autumn
too high in the air.
A seasonal schism is here,
a coup d'été is at hand
and it will not fall without some push.
I watch bugs now, the largest Dragonflies of all
who without summers end grow ever more literal.
Humming-bird feeders proliferate, the gold grass has gone brown, and the shadows on
the ground have started leaving imprints
of an untouchable nature.
See there a Crane-fly in a footstep,
another little thing trampled by the need for shade.
I watch the moon while I drive, it is
low and orange and conveys its vastness all
the way home.
I park, sit on the porch and
I seek to break convictions that have been laid upon me like bands of iron, lengths of clinking chain. Marley’s ghost weighs less than me, on certain grim, disturbing hours of left to myself. I want to be the me I was born to be. Born to be. Born. Why I wasn’t born for anything (Clotho disagrees, stretching my feelings taut between each forefinger and each dainty thumb. She plucks me and I thrum). You are a lost notion of yourself. Coming to. A part of you is coming through. There was an attic once. There was a basement space. There was a hole in the wall. There was an ancient wagon trunk. Pull yourself through. Let go. They shown in undimming beauty, like a star of evening dressed in sterling and a warm hoodie with steady, ursine eyes that flame and pulse in a game of night-dark bewitching blue. Their lips invite you and as you are drawn in they recede, like a sound, they recline and make space there beside them on the hill. The wet grass, those dark clouds obscure the sky and
There is nothing to be amused by just get used to the new sky. It is up up up and so am I. When you say I am troubled Do you think I will crumble? Will the fetters that hold me be made into rubble? Shall the fall down then slay me? An imposed unmaking? A pretense at morals we're only just faking. So you finally should see That you are troubled by me I make up monsters and then they go free. You send me red daisies but such tokens are weighty when carried by eagles who seek me out daily. This drip drop goes on Till the end of the song that you keep on singing to the moody python yet if you just quit have done with all it why then I'll look you up with a grin that won't fit I'll walk through the space which you used to replace and the sun from the glass of the sky I'll efface.
I don't feel gorgeous anymore I am letting myself down by feeling that way but I can't be upbeat about it without beating myself up and I am still raw in some places any slip could be hilt deep before I know it I feel like a ripped shirt, I am running home to change isolation is just so easy, it is the walls we put up castle building, dungeon delving, locked and stocked with traps I am, monsters, monstrous, low-fi by design. Just gimmicks, just a frankly fraying hand, extending reaching out, offering peace to a place I am no longer I'll be at my work bench just a moment more I'll be: stay busy, and upbeat I'll be: i'll keep, everything's fine I'll be: delaying some inevitable
Is this sin? To know the heights, the scaffolds of bitter bark the thorn lodged within you are paying for your knowledge with each bite but you are riveted, eyes alive to the sky there is no going down there is no far off beseeching cry it is only you this far from ground and they can only be best pleased when you decide just what you've found.
Oh my little one your fuss, is pure delight my tame one, my summer sun rapping on my window every night begging me to let you in with small heartbeats, a snag toothed grin you who leave little cuts of meat outside, familiar each time who saved me one year, in the deep dark unrelenting july you remembered me just the way I loved to be how could I ever do other than let you go free
no shot in any dark eve, i've seen no season keep burning quite this obscene. fuck me, right? read my rights and left behinds, my ups and downsides, my knees both skinned. spend me like currents, see three digits spark, defiant. how reliant is a key unkept? let me die in this desert, unwept.
On the day they dance-swirled Words w(h)ere meant less, less Last touch, last holds, last hand On the back slides, folds, holds Closer to lips to ear to whisper One last holder, hold ‘er, hold ere There: one step, swirl, step Said, hands made more And mouths err better.
If you want someone to fall in love Take the heart of a turtledove Bind it in a ribbon of red Bind it again in golden thread Leave it in honey overnight Take it out by a pink candle’s light Be sure to use a silver spoon On the night of a crescent moon (A waxing crescent, to be precise) Then sprinkle on a pinch of rice Thrown at a wedding, one year past (Do so with your eyes downcast) Take a lock of your true love’s hair Bound with a string from a scarf you wear Sprinkle heart and hair with gold-leaf dust (Use real gold: this is a must) Place it all in a rosewood box Seal it with a silver lock For ninety days you then must wait… Or, you could just ask them on a date
This is what its like at the bottom of the sea;
it is like an apartment in summer, it is fan centric,
flower rich, a nude girl lies dreamily on the couch
too hot for modesty, the light filtering down is like
a music box, the air is one long hum like a
neverending breath.
Hey watcher types, don't know how much DA advertises Nanowrimo but for me it's been a real treat this year. I think this November might actually be the one! Fingers Crossed against jinxes obviously.
I wanted to hear from you all, any projects you're working on lately or maybe just updates on how your own Nano's are going this year?
Be glad to hear from anyone whose still out there!
I was going to write a lot of depressive drivel here but I have decided to forgo it in favor of sharing some music and talking about my day(s).
[link] So after four years at university that ultimately have turned out to have had some cracks in the panning I am back home with my parents and youngster siblings following what might have started to be some kind of breakdown (always knew I had it in me, so proud!) or alternatively some kind of fidgety insubstantial interpersonal self-esteem crash.
I stopped writing. I stopped reading. A cessation of art and inspiration accrued over those years that had built up a funk in my soul that I couldn't