Category: poetry

relaxation?

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Yeah, no.

About ten minutes’ worth of quietude on the front porch, until a person walked by and the dogs started barking, thunder came up and the little dog lost her shit, and, and, and.

It’s a poem, in bleak deconstruction.

Stillness, peace.

Ripped open by the rabid sound of protection,

And the heightened screams of fear.

Target: 600 words
Written: 631 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Hans Christian Andersen's Fairy Tale
Comics: American Vampire 28-29, American Vampire: Lord Of Nightmares 1-2
Music: On The Radio, Green Day

i guess i shouldn’t write at night

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Maybe late at night if it’s been a not-so-bad day, and I’m all keyed up and need a release.

But writing after a long day of a hard mental slog? It doesn’t leave much to be desired.

I had a thought about writing of wanting to be bigger than you are (on the inside! And not in the squishy, gooey, fatty way), but that’s too big for me now.

I am small.

My words are small. My works are small.

I am a haiku; flash fiction.

A one-shot comic.

A short story.

A novella, bordering on novelette.

What’s a novelette you say?

A book that wears heels and kicks up its legs in a line with its fellow works, all tits and fishnet, grinning to hide the awful realities behind it.

Target: 500 words
Written: 307 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Welcome To Night Vale, Night Valia (I did like it, but the near constant podcast references slowed it waaaaaaaaaaaay down, making me wish time was as weird as they say it is, and thereby I could skim through it a bit faster.  It got to be a bit of a slog.)
Comics: East Of West 5-8 (way, way into this)
Music: Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me, The Cure (I'd kiss you)

a real boy

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I’m kind of excited. I mean, I’m writing about ruining a kid’s life, but also!

Published! In a real book of poetry. It’s a physical copy. You can touch and feel it. It can’t be deleted in a moment when the website goes out of business.

That’s pretty cool.

But anyway, back to destroying a young boy’s entire family, so he can be eaten and/or consumed by a monster.

You know, same old, same old.

Target: 300 words
Written: 1439 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Yours, Cruelly, Elvira
Comics: Fight Club 2 0-3
Music: Your Genius Hands, Everclear

so begins canon

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I’ve been poking at it for a while. Haikus and flash fiction are all good, and comic book scripts and thinly veiled political rants are something else, but proof of life, proof of concept, of talent, skill, hard work, dedication, adaptability, open-mindedness, and good old fashioned sex appeal lay in the pudding.

(Or Jello wrestling mud pit, if we’re talking that last thing).

The point is, there’s no me, as I want me to be, without books. Reading is only halfway to completion. It’s the act of creation (which is really just exploration and discovery, connection and understanding), that’s the thing that fills the cup.

(Or Jello mud wrestling pit).

The bottom line is, me as I am now? I’m not happy with that person. That person sucks. That person writes split-sentence haikus and pretentious shit about hats.

(I love them both dearly).

This person that I want to be? He gets dark. He gets into it. He understands subtext and trauma and helplessness in the face of adversity.

He knows how to crush you – your soul anyway.

(He’d likely lose in the Jello pit).

I want to make you uncomfortable; to remember that happy endings are not the only endings, and neither are grand tragedies.

Sometimes, it’s the little tragedies that wreck us whole.

Target: 300 words
Written: 794 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Getting Things Done, David Allen
Comics: Southern Bastards 9-12
Music: You Only Live Once, The Strokes (The Strokes with Eddie Vedder doing Marvin Gaye?  Fuck me sideways, does it get better than that?)

birds fall

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birds fall down upon
weighted wings they choose to fall
blindly into night

Target: 100 words
Written: 83 words, poem: Birds Fall

Read: Do The Fucking Work by GFDA (don't bother, pure tripe)
Comics: Wytches 1-4
Music: X Essentials by X
Happy New Year.  Beware the things you choose, but refuse to acknowledge that you allow.  The thing you don't pay attention to is the thing that drags you deep.