Foreword: Though the elements of horror fiction commonly make their way into my writing, it is oddly one of my least common reading choices. The bulk of which, when I do partake, is centered on a psychological component. In appreciation, few other subjects offer a laboratory as free for exploration. I felt, in holiday spirit, what’s the harm? Hope you enjoy.
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S.D.B.Q!
Fixing instruments of death. A wrench turning man. the author of apocalypse - swift rivers’ final breath. A demon, fears of every depth. Purged of amnesty. Hedge rows trimmed to hypocrisy. A lesson, some say, learned - apple rotting on the desk. A monster lamenting only failure.
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Bar Setting
Message from the awful truths nothing stronger than full proof. Bits and pieces of presumption. Little takeaways for view - pleasure emptier than the room. Rise to the occasion or rise to nothing. Gracious notes from old to new: scrambled eggs and beatnik floof. Flowers on collars and shelves of buttons. Let the setting scene fade to view.
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Low Hanging Fruit
Far, far away. Sittin’ where the apple seeds grow all day. Whistle up a smile and the branches sway. Dump out the bath and keep the baby face. Nothing left of leaving - only born yesterday.
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you my
My mind buzzes over you. No use hiding from the truth. I hope it’s coming, what we’ve got coming - I need it. I need to feel inside, a castle on the hill with faces in the vines. I need you. No use hiding every night. I see something in your eyes. If you’re not something, I’ve got nothing. I need it. Fuel the fire inside a wood burned stove with glassy eyed cries. I need you. I don’t know where time has gone. Last I seen, it up and run. Ah, but nothing, it’s all nothing. I don’t need it. A crumbling tide. The house fell down, nobody inside. I need you. I need you.
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Provocations from the Poet: Pipelines and Pleading
Better to suffer adversity and meet self-actualization than to seek comfort in quiet mediocrity.
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TONIGHT’S MENU
Arms open to the warmth of a kindled flame. Wise words encourage the finer things first. Swimming free of real naught; realized. Low down, twins - fraternal - adore. Rolling slopes bring a sweet sun to rest and a goddess to rise.
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Tumble Cake
If I could have an ice cream, I’d rather buy two. If I could take a walk, I’d rather go with you. If I could make a home, I’d build it with a view. Large windows while you’re outside so I could stare at you. Whenever I’m alone, dear, you’re inside my head. All the things I’m missing I’d hear from you instead.
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Hold Cloak, Bring Dagger
Skepticism in its sheath, a proverb donned on me. Judgement come cloud, some lost and some found, repetitious melody. Anticipate their looks, the mile long stares, breeding surreptitiously. Eyes bounce and hang; besieging pack of googlies.
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Just finished: Hyperion by Dan Simmons
To label “Hyperion” as a simple platitude like “fictional novel” would be to regard the Louvre as “just another museum.” Simmons did not write a book, but rather engineered a layer cake; a trans-generational celebration of literature cultivating his own unique storytelling within.
I’ve come to relish this book as a bible of expression in the literary form. The mere nature of it provides one great lesson outside the many beautiful delicacies within. That lesson synthesizes with another great piece of advice I learned only within the recent past: Imitation, a great form of flattery, can also serve as a nurturing tutor. Simmons is not afraid to interweave wisdom from past works while simultaneously crafting a unique piece of his own.
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