The ghost of where you are
Will haunt you where you go,
he said, suggesting I leave anyway.
I believe in the geographical cure, after all.
I know that ghosts aren't real,
Nevertheless, I fear them.
Ode to your enemyThere is no downside to forgiving.
To forgive is to let someone go from your mind.
To forgive someone when they ask is to release yourself from their mind.
Bliss is to not think about each other at all.
mr sord and the grocery capersthere once was a man called mr sord
mr sord was a shops owner and had some shopes on the main street all of them were like the same shop
it was like a grocery shop chain which he had all lines up in a row for some reaons because i guess he was absent in that business class in school where they said having a chain of shops all in a row was a fucking stupid idea.
anyway he had this chain of shops and he sold groceries and dvd rental from all of them except the third one from the end which had a bit where you could sell old dvds and vhs tapes and shit instead of the dvd rental thing and i guess that was how he kept his stock up or whatever.
anyway in all of the shops he had this secret which peopel weren't allowed to know or it would be a bad thing for him and that secret was that he took multipack bags of crisps and sold them individually
someone noticed one time and he got in trouble
the ghost space marine attackThe stocky general's helm clattered to the ground as he tripped, rushing to the throne room.
'The castle is under seige, my lord!' shouted Friedrich, adjusting his armour.
As he faced his fearless overlord he became aware of something stirring in his loins. He did not dare investigate; to look away from Lord Nippleeyes is to face certain death2 (death2 is like death but worse somehow).
'I know, general Friedrich von Boobenheim. Are my men not dealing with the situation in accordance with article 24 of the Torse Code?' (the Torse Code is a book written by Lord Nippleeyes himself- an impressive feat, considering he is a floating torso with a cape nailed on- that detail the law of the land as Nippleeyes decrees).
Nippleyees watched carefully as Friedrich's gaze began to falter.
'Am I to understand that our men have not dealt with the situation already?' spake the leader, his eldritch voice becoming more abominabysmal with each subsequent syllable. Nippleeyes floated to the castle window a
2369A hideous wail cut through the minds of the soldiers, jarring them into action. The lookout stuck his head above the mound of soil and bodies, a bunker of cadavers thrown together by desperate men seeking refuge from a frail but deadly foe. A wave of the ghasts, suspended in the air by invisible wires, steadily drifted toward them. Several of these packs groups of twenty or more undead - followed and merged into a translucent blur dispersing far and wide beyond the Dark horizon like oil paint blended with pitch, smudged across a bloodstained page.
"They're here!" called the lookout to his superior and ducked below the bunker once more.
The sergeant shuffled toward the power generator and followed the output wire to its frayed end. Ensuring the generator was switched off; he pulled the wire toward the device in the center of the circle of men. A tall antenna extended from a tripod, fine branches of obsidian jutting out and upward from a tall conical mast which was thin at the bas
MinionI remember the time exactly. 3:33. AM, that is. Half past three in the morning. I awoke, shivering and my breath coiled above me, a ghostly claw in the air reaching for the ceiling. Of course, this shouldn't have been possible in the middle of summer and I did question the plausibility of a sudden drop in temperature as I sat up and looked around. Normally, I'd go back to sleep but something was...off. I don't know. I couldn't put my finger on it at the time.
So yeah, I sat up. You've probably guessed by now that there was somebody else in my room, and the fact that my bedroom was a refrigerator explains that said somebody was in fact a ghost, a poltergeist, a spirit, a spectre, a phantom; whatever you want to call it. It was a dead person, a dead girl. My girlfriend was standing in my bedroom, dead.
I didn't know she was dead when I first looked at her, so I turned on my bedside lamp to make sure it was her and I could see right through her (although I could do that well enough while
The Princess and the Spider 2The Princess and the Spider 2: The Spiderning: The Film: The Novel
In a far off mansion in a castle in a land far away, there lived a princess; a cursed princess.
Many years before this tale is set, all that she ever cared about was taken from her by an evil spider. She wanders the halls of her castle, alone where once stood a grand mirror now stood a grand mirror with a sheet over it so that she may never have to gaze upon the terrible scarring left by the arachnids poisoned bite.
Sighing, she stepped away from the tear-stained cloth covering what was once her most treasured possession. She descended the decrepit stone staircase which led down into the entrance hall in a great sweeping spiral, expertly avoiding each damaged foothold lest she should slip and bespatter the dusty marble floor with her brains.
It was 11am and the messenger had arrived with a letter from her parents and an outstanding bill from IKEA. Catch
sempiternalWhen I grow old
For when rainbows dilute and notebooks fatten
on times untimely passing,
when the moon falls out of kilter with a sun that
curdles in a sad, forgotten sky,
and the rain congeals inside the clouds
when the slurry of seconds sinks deep into my bones
and my skin crumples like parchment, my spine coils and splinters
and my fingers buckle, knuckle-cracking -
when my dreams fade like polaroids in sunshine
and my memories break free from their kitestrings
unanchored and drifting in such dulcet mindmurk and I watch
the world crumble from gold into grey.
I want a thousand laugh-lines
for they will be the maps to better times
so I can find my way back
The Rumour of IcarusIcarus
there is a rumour that your father killed you, that
he bent your wings until they broke and then
told you, "Fly."
If this rumour is true, then it lives in the throats of
those fragile boys who wear your death like Cain's mark,
whose tender hands split like swollen tomatoes when
they pluck strangled seabirds, whose
arms slump beneath the weight of their father's genius.
And this rumour lives on
the under-skin of their eyelids so that when they die
or simply sleep
they dream of their fathers
or maybe just of Daedalus, standing with
his hands full of feathers and wax,
their blood-flecked down under his fingernails.
your face is gone, icarus, you are a warning & a tragedy &
the patron saint of boys who will not listen but also you are a god, icarus,
a god to these boys and still, when you fell
said Bruegel in oils, Auden and Williams in verse
no one gave a damn.
they also say that your father strained the sunlight into an amphora
and told you, "Dri
December 25thDecember 25th and I've had 365 days to forget
your aunt's incredible roast turkey and braiding tinsel
through your sister's hair and interpretive dancing
to cheesy carols with your drunken Uncle Mark.
Firelight flickered across the curve
of your lips, the shadow of your jaw
and boy, you were beautiful,
all smoke and cinnamon.
December 25th and I'm ignoring the urge
to mess up your sleet slickened hair
and the fact that your card now says "from"
instead of "love".
I almost don't notice the way your eyelashes
glitter with snowflakes
and the fact that you look adorable
while you laughingly attempt to make a snow angel.
December 25th and I'm going to cheer
along with the rest of them
when you kiss her under the mistletoe
and then I'll gush about how sweet her embarrassed blushes are.
The pudding is brim filled with wishes
and maybe this year they'll come true better
than the last, because it seems "forever"
was too much to ask for.
Is that supposed to be insulting?"Lesbian!"
You say that like it's a bad thing
like it's something i should be ashamed of.
But why? Because I happen to fall in love with the same gender?
That my interests are out of the ordinary?
That I dye my hair wacky colors and wear clothes that don't fit your normal?
I see nothing wrong with that.
People really suck at insults.
Gender massacre.anatomy is like a cage, that tears away any hope.
born this way, born that way,
our mind chooses nothing.
do we choose what we are? Or does anatomy?
long hair, tight skirts, weak.
thank you, society.
flailing body parts, vulgar dancing, bare.
thank you, ladies.
give those who identify as women a stereotype by wearing more makeup
baggy shorts, shaved heads, muscles.
thank you, society.
patronizing insults, unnessecary grunts, aggressive.
thank you, gentlemen.
give those who identify as men a stereotype by cheating at poker, where
a woman's heart's on the table.
you can't be either,
you can't be both
[this is what you teach me, society.
this is what you teach yourselves, society.]
rip off this skin of mine
rip off these assumptions
rip off the ignorance
and call me human.
To Us- Synesthesiai.
excites a burst
of color; an
tastes of mangoes;
caressing my senses.
your flavor is
all become a
"T" is crabby
and "I" worries.
"J" is strong
each number becomes
its own plane
all the numbers
becoming an army
of curvy rows,
a perfect pattern.
each and every one
a different hue,
a different shade,
What is art?
'Describe what you call art'
To me art is something from the heart.
It's an embodiment of a vision,
It's a display of ambition.
An artist's work is never done,
Cause to the artist the work is only part of the fun.
An artist tries to show his emotions,
While sometimes hiding his true motions.
They say the eyes are the gate to the soul,
That's why an artist will never look foul.
They guide people through a world only they see,
A world filled with mountains, miracles, oceans and land seas.
So whenever somebody asks me: 'What is art?'
I do not only answer: "Something straight from the heart,
It's everything we know and that which we don't know.
It's hidden by the illusion of reality only certain people can see through."
memories.my mind replays
memories of us
each night, and
i am lost, lost
in the shadows of
your eyes, the curve
of your almost-smiles,
the lullabies in your
voice, the sound of
don't wake me up
i told you that
i would change, that
i'd paint the sky violet
for you, that i would
miss you, and i could
catch you a rainbow,
or a heart beat,
or star, or a smile,
or whatever you want,
but 'whatever you want'
was not me, and
i was never enough
to make you stay.
all i ever wanted
was for you to say
'i love you',
but i guess
are better left unsaid.
.SetIt is Akhet, the season of sorrow and silt, and Set
must tense his sandbreath against the slick of wet
once more. It's always the same: though he's unsure
who started the game, or whose face he wears,
he knows he must prepare for the beginning of the end,
the bite of night and all the slippages in the inbetween.
And he swore he'd bait their breath,
but they'd rather choose death than fear,
with their tombstone legs, arms pegged
in sockets and their locked ears,
burying themselves beneath blocks
built to the sun. They outrun him, every time.
It's a crime. He remembers what his mother said:
do what you're able to keep them faithful,
to keep them grateful under the table.
He wonders where it all went wrong.
So he must sink into the long light, fight wanderlust
for blighted floodplains, and try not to ask why.
There are no answers, only questions.
Even his name is disguised by the way they collide in the dust.
He won't look back to watch the waters rise,
or the blackening of the swallowed