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calamitythey say fire is badfor it erases thoughtsand memories- so crueland remorseless; like anassassin on roll call.you are unholy and farworse than fire, you scorchright through the soul of meand you break me inall the right places.like a newborn locustsharing time with acorn snake; fascinated byhis sedimentary skin, his way ofabsorbing air.somehow, you managedto believe in me evenas I stood dying-trembling with penniesglued to my eyelids.you aspired to prolongthe life in me; came sprintingwith threads and needles to stitchmy ventricles whole. I held youso tightly that my knuckles bled, crackedlike bits of styrofoam below anelephant's stride-but I knew all too well thatyou were far too unaccustomedto calamity's cool embraceto throw yourself under andhelp me resurface.
Statues cannot WeepShe sits alone in an ivory tower,Not of selfishness, but isolation.There is a tall and narrow window-Wherein the sea breeze blows,And lifts the curls around her face.And such a face;A smooth, blank porcelain mask,The lips are bloodless and her eyes are as chips of pale flint,Not cold, only indescribably sad.This girl is young, her face is also pale,But her hair is a smoked-oak brown,Her eyes are blue, crystalline ice.It burns to look at her; great beauty,Like great pain, must be forgotten.Sometimes she wonders if she is more stone than flesh.Often at this time, descending seems a spiral into loneliness,Or madness, or sadness,She cannot decide which.This is no cruel enchantment.There is no white knight come to save her.Though sometimes she cannot help but dream.Her breath rises like gossamer and reminds her she is alive-Pale blue veins thrumming beneath translucent skin,That match the ones flowing up and down her delicate throatAnd soft temples;Also assure her o
Scary SkinnyShe's not anorexic, she's far too fat.She won't be happy till her stomach falls flat.She turn on the shower, it's really quite a task.Her muscles are weak, but for help she won't ask,She steps in the cubicle and keeps her eyes up,She doesn't want to see her fat body close-up,Her bones jut and float away from her skin.But still her stomach and breath she holds in.Her hips point and jut like a bony white shelf,And the cave of her stomach falls in on itself,The water cries down on her waterfall ribs,And her breasts are merely tiny white nibs.No skin on her bones, her pulse clearly seen,On the bones of her chest that shimmer and sheen,She wrings her eyes dry and cobwebs them shut,So as not to see her prominent beer belly gut,Stepping clumsy and blind out of the water,Didn't want to see the mirror, it teased and taunted her.But she stumbled on the step she'd forgotten about,And there the mirror was, staring her out.Tears melted her eyes, her fat body.. a mess..She wante
The Other PlaceIt was a elk, or at least,the remains of one.The stag was young-it still had short soft fur on its' antlers.Abandoned to ferment in the midsummer sun.The stench rolled off it in waves-like ripples of heat above a winter fire.It seemed as if it was moving,struggling to get up;but it was just maggots, writhing in the beast's flank.'Leave it, it is disgusting,' he said.'Is it?' she asked, curious.'Of course,' he replied,'Can you not you smell the decay?''We never had death in the Other Place,' she said softly,'To me this smell is new and interesting,I don't know what disgusting is.'Beneath her feet a twig snapped;the sudden noise sending the birds skyward.She stared at the crows gliding through the limbs of the trees-like ethereal wraiths.Limbs that writhed and twisted,blackened bones against the alluring sky.And with them,every crow in the nearby trees took flight,launching into the air, a plague of locusts,filling the air with their savage cries.She screamed.
Repetition is RepetitiousRepetition is great for practice.Repetition is great for learning.Repetition teaches patience.Repetition teaches devotion.Repetition is comfortable.But repetition is repetitious.Don't people get tired of doing roughly the same things over and over again?Don't people get tired of seeing roughly the same things over and over again?Tired of repeating the same techniques.Tired of repeating the same concepts.Need to improve.Need to innovate.Art is not my job.Art is my mental exercise.And I am mentally underfit.So it's time to get back into shape.