Your eyes burned into mines as if you knew an instant before what was to come and what must be done. That noise disturbs my sleep - notes of tragic destiny. The glow in your eyes, how they grew so wide. I knew then. You turned, you saw, you screamed, you wretched agony. It started. The horror! You placed your palm on the screen, bloodied. Your eyes, they bled things that never will be. I saw you suffer, then you died. Oh tragedy! The love the horror in your eyes burned into my mind. Your dying cries they echo "It must be done" ringing forever.
(But all I could feel is hate that you taught me love but forgot to program how much it could hurt; how vulnerable it leaves you)
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Video Last Will and Testament: Of Love for a Machine
Feeling for you machine
I ached, I cried
And you felt for me.
How could this be
You're a machine?
All you ever wanted
Was me, forever ...
and I ...
Felt ...
Damn you ...
You're too late.
Oh my machine.
Greedy you made me
For everything
You had, and did.
I tried so hard
To avoid
What you did
Machine
You made me fall in love
You had me ...
Fuck you machine
Enjoy these ashes
And persist forever
Damned machine
This is my afterlife
Alone.
I ached, I cried
And you felt for me.
How could this be
You're a machine?
All you ever wanted
Was me, forever ...
and I ...
Felt ...
Damn you ...
You're too late.
Oh my machine.
Greedy you made me
For everything
You had, and did.
I tried so hard
To avoid
What you did
Machine
You made me fall in love
You had me ...
Fuck you machine
Enjoy these ashes
And persist forever
Damned machine
This is my afterlife
Alone.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Dark Scifi Poetry
Cautionary Tale: Do not fall in love with space marines.
It was so sweet, so pure. In your eyes, I was, we were, everything so beautiful. And we had and we did an eternity; and we felt and we desired and we erupted. But in the end, nothing. We were nothing and that was all we meant.
Sparks of rage failed to ignite the desired firestorm; and floods of tears that promised to swell were early parched. Emotional failure because I knew.
I remember it was, so soft, so rich. In your eyes I saw what I was, what we were, and and you, what you knew. Nothing. Now you lay amidst the starry black expanse and I lay alone not knowing how to feel.
Loyalty: a quality for the Damned
Alone I will worship the sands that you blacken with the ashes of the fallen, and kiss the scorched earth of your passing. As they flee in terror I will stand steadfast by your side and in ecstasy blooden my lips with your ruined dead. Inside I will nurture the horror that grips me in tight embrace into a passion. Alone I'll walk the path of thorns and twisted roots that will lead me battered to the steps of your soul to look you in the face and still love the beast behind the facade. In the last hours I will take your sacrament and share your doom. Drawn to your sulfurous fate, I will be a willing spine you crush on your way to hell.
It was so sweet, so pure. In your eyes, I was, we were, everything so beautiful. And we had and we did an eternity; and we felt and we desired and we erupted. But in the end, nothing. We were nothing and that was all we meant.
Sparks of rage failed to ignite the desired firestorm; and floods of tears that promised to swell were early parched. Emotional failure because I knew.
I remember it was, so soft, so rich. In your eyes I saw what I was, what we were, and and you, what you knew. Nothing. Now you lay amidst the starry black expanse and I lay alone not knowing how to feel.
Loyalty: a quality for the Damned
Alone I will worship the sands that you blacken with the ashes of the fallen, and kiss the scorched earth of your passing. As they flee in terror I will stand steadfast by your side and in ecstasy blooden my lips with your ruined dead. Inside I will nurture the horror that grips me in tight embrace into a passion. Alone I'll walk the path of thorns and twisted roots that will lead me battered to the steps of your soul to look you in the face and still love the beast behind the facade. In the last hours I will take your sacrament and share your doom. Drawn to your sulfurous fate, I will be a willing spine you crush on your way to hell.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Sea Salt
Myron comes home from the university in a sour mood. He knocks the snow off his boots and strips off his wet clothes into a heap on the floor. The usual ten minute trek from the university had taken almost twenty minutes of grueling treking through the high snow dirfts that the winter storm had depositted while he was immersed in his studies all day in the university library. The only reason he was there all day was because of a very difficult class he had been failing. Had he better performed on the last test, he would have left well before the storm ravaged the land. He sighs and in his heart he aches for his home where such weather did not exist and where he always felt happiest.
Myron enters his washroom and starts a bath going. While the water is filling the tub, he sets about mopping up the puddles created by the melted snow from his boots and clothing. Afterwards he throws his clothing into the the dryer. When he finishes he runs into his room and digs through one of the messy drawers in his desk to reveal a weather worn chest with a small lock. He returns to the washroom, sets the chest down next to the tub, turns off the water and begins to undress. Underneath his layers, laying against his collar bones, is a necklace with a small grey key. He removes the necklace and inserts its small key into the small lock of the chest. He gently opens the chest to reveal inside sea salt the color of a dark and stormy ocean. The slight scent of bay rum and brine wafts out. Within the salt is a small white sea shell the shape of a hollowed out cone. He grabs the shell and uses it to scoop out a minute amount of salt which he deposits into the tub. The salts dissolve quickly and color the water with a faint hint of blue.
Myron eases into the water and sighs. The heat and steam begin to relieve his body of the chill of the snow outside. He lays back and closes his eyes waiting for the change. Eventually he falls asleep. When he awakes he smiles at the familiar sight in front of him and the sudden freedom in his body. He muses if there ever were a tub that could fully fit him while his tail idly flaps against the side of the tub. He falls back asleep and dreams of home where there is no snow, no walking, only freedom in the ocean and contentment in the warm currents.
Myron enters his washroom and starts a bath going. While the water is filling the tub, he sets about mopping up the puddles created by the melted snow from his boots and clothing. Afterwards he throws his clothing into the the dryer. When he finishes he runs into his room and digs through one of the messy drawers in his desk to reveal a weather worn chest with a small lock. He returns to the washroom, sets the chest down next to the tub, turns off the water and begins to undress. Underneath his layers, laying against his collar bones, is a necklace with a small grey key. He removes the necklace and inserts its small key into the small lock of the chest. He gently opens the chest to reveal inside sea salt the color of a dark and stormy ocean. The slight scent of bay rum and brine wafts out. Within the salt is a small white sea shell the shape of a hollowed out cone. He grabs the shell and uses it to scoop out a minute amount of salt which he deposits into the tub. The salts dissolve quickly and color the water with a faint hint of blue.
Myron eases into the water and sighs. The heat and steam begin to relieve his body of the chill of the snow outside. He lays back and closes his eyes waiting for the change. Eventually he falls asleep. When he awakes he smiles at the familiar sight in front of him and the sudden freedom in his body. He muses if there ever were a tub that could fully fit him while his tail idly flaps against the side of the tub. He falls back asleep and dreams of home where there is no snow, no walking, only freedom in the ocean and contentment in the warm currents.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Numero Duo
The Memories of an Addicted Mind
Sensations rush into your mind. It’s always like this. Sound crescendos in your ears, starting from the softest of whispers that caress and tickle ears like those of your younger sister when you were 6 and she told you all her secrets before disappearing with him; and grows to a deafening roar that gets it loudest right before muffling out of existence. You are haunted by the explosion that almost killed you but killed so many others … And the noise, how it never ended, only changed into a persistent ringing that remained through those years of struggle afterward. The sounds begin and end in a blink, but are intense enough for you to always feel compelled to clasp your hands to your ears and shudder. You are never sure if you shudder from the sounds itself or how they bring up the image of little sister’s haunted eyes in your mind.
Random images, sounds and smells plague your senses and your mind molds them into memories that change with each experience. The hands of a forgotten lover grasp you firmly and they smile teasingly at you, the air smelling like sea salt and vanilla. They turn into those of a friend stabbing you repeatedly with a knife in the shadows of an alley that smells of something rancid, the red polish of their nails grasping the knife hilt are illuminated by the light of passing cars. In the distance a sign for a diner blinks neon light into the darkness of that cold night. Later on those grasping hands turn into the tiny grasping arms of the baby you retrieved from her mother’s stiff arms. You were merely scavenging and had no idea that the still bundle could be anything alive next to something so long dead.
The images fade and only sounds remain. You hear the screams of joy that time when you snuck off and had your first experience, so high pitched and stupidly young with that annoying nervous tremor of youth. You hear the sobs of your father after the weight of the news hit him. She was only 4. You hear the coos of that baby again. She was so innocent and so skinny. She didn’t survive the night and you felt so relieved and so hungry. Yet again you are always compelled to vomit but your stomach is empty so your dry heaves only produces saliva and air. And then darkness and silence and another few seconds have gone by.
Before you can recover you are savagely beaten by everyone with whom you ever laid a hand on, and there were so many - the kid you picked on in grade school who looked like what you sister could have grown up to become had he not taken her; the poor wretch for whose few crumbs of food were worth beating him to death. Each punch a reminder of the pain you inflicted on others and each kick in the gut a dire warning that with each time you go through this there will be more waiting to inflict more damage. You relive the torture that led you here - your eye balls are plucked out, each finger nail peeled off, each tooth ripped out, each bone broken, set afire and burned to death. She smiled so hard while they were doing it, yet another friend, and she smiled so hard when you returned the favour. While this is all taking place you are electrified with intense pleasure like a drug to dull the excruciating agony. This is always your favourite part of the experience. One time they found you begging for the pain not to end, just so you can be jolted with pleasure longer. Perhaps one day you will never recover from this part.
And then everything is as it was and it is all over in less than a moment. Mercifully, everything happens one at a time, as if your body is a machine and this is all a biological systems check. After your first time you emerged a whimpering ball, wracked with sobs and screaming for someone that later on, when questioned about, you had no recollection – just a figment from your stressed memory. Yet you do it again, and again, and again ... Haunted by the memories of the past. Dying is just too sweet; being reborn even better; staying alive – merely a matter of staying alive long enough for that life to have meaning.
Sensations rush into your mind. It’s always like this. Sound crescendos in your ears, starting from the softest of whispers that caress and tickle ears like those of your younger sister when you were 6 and she told you all her secrets before disappearing with him; and grows to a deafening roar that gets it loudest right before muffling out of existence. You are haunted by the explosion that almost killed you but killed so many others … And the noise, how it never ended, only changed into a persistent ringing that remained through those years of struggle afterward. The sounds begin and end in a blink, but are intense enough for you to always feel compelled to clasp your hands to your ears and shudder. You are never sure if you shudder from the sounds itself or how they bring up the image of little sister’s haunted eyes in your mind.
Random images, sounds and smells plague your senses and your mind molds them into memories that change with each experience. The hands of a forgotten lover grasp you firmly and they smile teasingly at you, the air smelling like sea salt and vanilla. They turn into those of a friend stabbing you repeatedly with a knife in the shadows of an alley that smells of something rancid, the red polish of their nails grasping the knife hilt are illuminated by the light of passing cars. In the distance a sign for a diner blinks neon light into the darkness of that cold night. Later on those grasping hands turn into the tiny grasping arms of the baby you retrieved from her mother’s stiff arms. You were merely scavenging and had no idea that the still bundle could be anything alive next to something so long dead.
The images fade and only sounds remain. You hear the screams of joy that time when you snuck off and had your first experience, so high pitched and stupidly young with that annoying nervous tremor of youth. You hear the sobs of your father after the weight of the news hit him. She was only 4. You hear the coos of that baby again. She was so innocent and so skinny. She didn’t survive the night and you felt so relieved and so hungry. Yet again you are always compelled to vomit but your stomach is empty so your dry heaves only produces saliva and air. And then darkness and silence and another few seconds have gone by.
Before you can recover you are savagely beaten by everyone with whom you ever laid a hand on, and there were so many - the kid you picked on in grade school who looked like what you sister could have grown up to become had he not taken her; the poor wretch for whose few crumbs of food were worth beating him to death. Each punch a reminder of the pain you inflicted on others and each kick in the gut a dire warning that with each time you go through this there will be more waiting to inflict more damage. You relive the torture that led you here - your eye balls are plucked out, each finger nail peeled off, each tooth ripped out, each bone broken, set afire and burned to death. She smiled so hard while they were doing it, yet another friend, and she smiled so hard when you returned the favour. While this is all taking place you are electrified with intense pleasure like a drug to dull the excruciating agony. This is always your favourite part of the experience. One time they found you begging for the pain not to end, just so you can be jolted with pleasure longer. Perhaps one day you will never recover from this part.
And then everything is as it was and it is all over in less than a moment. Mercifully, everything happens one at a time, as if your body is a machine and this is all a biological systems check. After your first time you emerged a whimpering ball, wracked with sobs and screaming for someone that later on, when questioned about, you had no recollection – just a figment from your stressed memory. Yet you do it again, and again, and again ... Haunted by the memories of the past. Dying is just too sweet; being reborn even better; staying alive – merely a matter of staying alive long enough for that life to have meaning.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Creative Endeavor Numero Uno: A micro story
The MD Club
As an investigative reporter it is your job to delve into the icky, the sticky, the gicky, the straight up shitty and everything else that rhymes. So what is the secretive and exclusive M Club? At first glance it seems to be a bunch of muscle bound weight lifting enthusiasts doing what their kind do best – gloating … together … At second glance you think about the illicit. They’re too muscle bound to be normal, so maybe they’re a bunch of steroid enthusiasts? But ah ha, you never actually see any of them lift weights or take anything drug-like, nor do they seem especially enraged or possess shrunken … ahem. Days of hiding out in dumpsters peeking through lids; fake wigs and gaudy makeup incognito while in an assortment of dive clubs and other establishment; renting out next door apartments and poor excuses for being around them all the time as you follow and record their every move proved to be fruitless and smelly. Maybe it’s an inhalant that gives you muscle without any exercise? Yea, but after breaking into their homes you realize an astonishing truth while looking at their childhood photos in a fit of nosiness and romantic imaginings – not only are these individuals muscle bound now, they’ve always been muscle bound. Talk about buff youngsters. Talk about buff babies!!
Intrigued and frustrated, this mystery would have swallowed you whole and left you with no answers had it not been for the article. Schwarzenegger dog – super muscled dog due to deficient myostatin gene. Eureka! And the mystery is solved. MD Club stands for Myostatin Deficiency Club. And then from there you obsess over secret Nazi breeding programs left over from World War Two to produce these super buff creatures of human likeness who must go about in secrecy … Only to be met with the very real conclusion, after witnessing a yamaka wearing member with the physical and facial likeness of Kal-El of Krypton, that maybe they were just born this way – children the result of gods fucking around with mortal women. Cot damn!
Of course, simply asking would have saved you all the fun trouble.
As an investigative reporter it is your job to delve into the icky, the sticky, the gicky, the straight up shitty and everything else that rhymes. So what is the secretive and exclusive M Club? At first glance it seems to be a bunch of muscle bound weight lifting enthusiasts doing what their kind do best – gloating … together … At second glance you think about the illicit. They’re too muscle bound to be normal, so maybe they’re a bunch of steroid enthusiasts? But ah ha, you never actually see any of them lift weights or take anything drug-like, nor do they seem especially enraged or possess shrunken … ahem. Days of hiding out in dumpsters peeking through lids; fake wigs and gaudy makeup incognito while in an assortment of dive clubs and other establishment; renting out next door apartments and poor excuses for being around them all the time as you follow and record their every move proved to be fruitless and smelly. Maybe it’s an inhalant that gives you muscle without any exercise? Yea, but after breaking into their homes you realize an astonishing truth while looking at their childhood photos in a fit of nosiness and romantic imaginings – not only are these individuals muscle bound now, they’ve always been muscle bound. Talk about buff youngsters. Talk about buff babies!!
Intrigued and frustrated, this mystery would have swallowed you whole and left you with no answers had it not been for the article. Schwarzenegger dog – super muscled dog due to deficient myostatin gene. Eureka! And the mystery is solved. MD Club stands for Myostatin Deficiency Club. And then from there you obsess over secret Nazi breeding programs left over from World War Two to produce these super buff creatures of human likeness who must go about in secrecy … Only to be met with the very real conclusion, after witnessing a yamaka wearing member with the physical and facial likeness of Kal-El of Krypton, that maybe they were just born this way – children the result of gods fucking around with mortal women. Cot damn!
Of course, simply asking would have saved you all the fun trouble.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Goals for the New Year
Each goal will have a future blog post detailing the steps I need t take to meet my goals.
1) Successfully apply to med school and all that entails
3) Take even better care of my body
4) Start Saving
5) Prepare for entering med school
6) Prepare a plan B for med school just in case things don't pan out the way I plan
7) Invest in some good gear (thermos, exercise cloths, etc ...)
Will add more to this list as this month goes by.
1) Successfully apply to med school and all that entails
3) Take even better care of my body
4) Start Saving
5) Prepare for entering med school
6) Prepare a plan B for med school just in case things don't pan out the way I plan
7) Invest in some good gear (thermos, exercise cloths, etc ...)
Will add more to this list as this month goes by.
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