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The scientist invited his coworker into the room to watch.
“This is the new drug we’ve been developing. When injected directly into your brain, it stimulates your speech center while you’re asleep, and you narrate all your thoughts. It’s taken a while, but we’re finally able to try it on human subjects.”
The scientist spoke into the microphone. “I’m going to turn down the lights and play soft music. I want you to try to sleep.”
The music started, and the man closed his eyes. The music faded in, it was very generic, but tolerable. The two scientists sat and waited for three hours.
“Ok, he’s in REM. I’m going to start pumping in the drug.”
The tube going up through the back of his neck went from clear to a dull orange. The EEG lit up.
“Any minute now… he’ll start talking.”
So the man spoke.
“Aaaaah… I… Miss… Pardon me… Ast… trucks… are big
The man was deciding whether or not
to donate money to the charity this year,
so an angel appeared on his right shoulder.
“If you were struggling, wouldn’t you hope
someone would do the same for you?”
The man fished a dollar out of his pocket,
until a devil appeared on his left shoulder.
“If you save that dollar, you could buy
a hamburger, and eat that while you
look at pornography!”
Another angel appeared on the man’s shoulder.
“That’s not okay at all, think of the children.”
The man remembered his old gym teacher,
who was arrested after doing both of those
things at the same time. Another devil.
“Save your money, they’d probably spend it
on drugs or something…”
A third angel, “They would not spend it on drugs.
There are lots of perfectly honest poor people.”
The man sat down, as the devils and angels
were starting to weigh his shoulders down.
Third devil, “If you save that dollar,
and a f
I walk across the sand.
There is no sand.
I feel it beneath my feet,
and wonder if this is what I’ve been missing.
There is no sand.
The grains creep between my toes,
the texture being imprinted in my feet,
in my mind.
There is no sand.
The wind rushes past my face,
and the smell of the ocean
brushes past my nose,
just enough to smell the salt.
There is no wind.
I see a lighthouse in the distance.
The walk, which doesn’t exist,
is a long distance,
but it passes by in an instant.
The surface of the tower
is rough and dirty
from years of use.
The lighthouse doesn’t exist.
I see myself standing next to the lighthouse,
and I exist,
but I am not here.
I wonder where this place is.
The Hotel Was Filled With Paintings
The desk clerk didn’t turn his head when I saw him. He did look at me though.
“Can I help you sir?”
“Do you have any rooms?”
“All our rooms are available.” His voice dropped on the floor as he talked.
I took a moment to look around the room. Each wall seemed to be lighted in the same way. Each object’s placement seemed intentional. It would be impossible to avoid feeling out of place.
“I’d like a room on the first floor, please.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but all our rooms are on the top floor.” The clerk’s head had not moved once yet. His head faced in a different direction, but his eyes stared at me. I didn’t want a room on the top floor, but this was the only hotel in town, so I had little choice.
“I’ll take any room you have.”
I turned around again to look at the walls. Nothing had changed, which seemed wrong to me, but I don’t know why I expected things to have moved arou
Men Of Rage
Men of rage scream in colors.
100,0,0 Trapped in mystery boxes with no exits,
217,199,79 We sing songs of loose teeth and exposed nerves.
173,217,79 We gape at the promise of tomorrow,
72,163,48 whatever that is.
231,196,120 We swim in pools of melted bones
230,118,57 and swallow the marrow that gives us life.
243,197,55 There is still life in these nerves.
113,91,23 It’s about time someone fixes that.
Men of rage scream in colors.
78,41,8 We stare at those who abuse themselves
53,23,14 as they abuse us,
47,8,8 and pretend that they’re victims.
48,20,120 Their cries burrow into our brains,
144,10,51 and nest there, like tumors.
217,31,32 One of these days, when they grow too big,
147,52,52 We will rip the tumors out of our heads,
96,49,49 and there will be nothing to fill the gap.
55,39,39 This is the song of the broken man,
21,21,21 the true man of rage.
Clay man goes to town.
He steps into the air
and walks next to the buildings.
He moves up and down the sides effortlessly,
but chooses to stay at one level anyway.
Clay man has a family
but he’s never met them.
He sees people at his sides.
These strangers are his family,
the family that never bothers him.
Clay man eats meals,
small bits at a time,
very small bits,
because he doesn’t know how to chew his food.
These bits collect in his throat
and pile up, like sand,
until his throat collapses around them,
and his food merges with his body.
Clay man watches TV on occasion,
he likes to watch the commercials.
He enjoys the notion that
there’s still one facet of entertainment
that doesn’t lie about the
nature of its existence.
Clay man drives to work every day.
Work is driving,
so he drives to a drive.
He has yet to start working,
because there is no starting point,
because there is no finishing point.
Clay man’s world is a bucket of fish,
upon which he only ev
The animated lion and the animated bear
were on the big screen for the first time.
The unlikely team had interesting dynamics
which got all the kids to watch this movie.
They ran around, having many adventures,
trying to stop the evil monster from turning
the earth into a giant ball of goo,
which would be bad, presumably.
Finally, the two animals met the monster.
Using the power of friendship,
the lion and bear made a giant beam of energy
and stopped the monster’s plan.
Then they ran over to the monster
and started tearing it apart.
They ate every last piece of the monster
Fighting over the last of his bloody remains.
Nature is adorable.
The Barking Dog
Scientists gathered in the room
to answer the question
“What is the meaning of life?”
The first man stood up
and started yapping like a dog.
The next man immediately started
flapping his arms like a chicken.
The third scientist started
muttering about setting things on fire.
Another man took his pencil
and started drawing pictures of missiles,
landing on tiny villages made of straw.
One person took a hand drill out of his pocket
and yelled that he would finally drill through
one of the icecaps to see what was there.
Several scientists had to restrain the third guy
from lighting the table on fire,
including the chicken.
All at once, the entire room erupted,
engaging in whatever instinct came to mind,
until the dog man started barking.
For about 10 seconds,
he yelled above all other noises,
his breath blew out the lighter
in the third guy’s hand.
Finally, when the room calmed down,
he went back to yapping.
The rest of the scientists sat patiently,
listening to the melod
The department store had two stories,
and poor designing.
Very poor designing.
The escalators only went up,
and the emergency stop button didn’t work.
So, people weren’t able to use
the escalator to get down.
Some people tried jumping,
but the ceiling was very high
and they were severely injured.
200 people couldn’t take the escalator down.
Fortunately, the bathrooms worked,
and getting supplies to the victims
was incredibly easy.
The governor was called.
The president was called.
The news circled a helicopter
around the area all day.
People held protests about
the mall’s management.
Then they figured out who designed the building
and held a protest about
the engineers who drew up the plans.
Then they figured out who designed the escalators
but that was too far away,
so they continued protesting the engineers.
FEMA brought bottled water
despite the fact that there were
water fountains next to the bathroom.
The people trapped complained for hours
because their ce
Change this lifeHiding in the shadows
Resisting in secrecy
Trying to find a way
To change this life of misery
The future is unknown
The past is to forget
The present is dull and boring
Is this what life has to offer?
I want to change
And I keep trying
Only to fail miserabily
Every single time
eight ways you've made me small1. I wish
this was for you.
2. my journal pages - the
brown one with all our monologues -
were jarred with hollow vows of
last poems of
letting you slip into a coma
of bad memories, watching you
fall to your death off
a cascading cliff of disease
and dis ease.
it was never
easy for me
3. there's a reason I ask
whether you're grey
(dark white, elusively black, in between)
or blue (behind the clouds, under wave-foam,
whateverthefuck runs through the back of my
palms); I'd rather have
than the arms
that once held you half-
heartedly. you had always been
my harmony and I
would have killed
to have been yours.
4. it could never have been just me, the way
it could never have been just
5. disasters are not beautiful,
but how is it that you
managed to make my inner linings
converge into bows
and explode into wings the very
night you decided to rebuild your walls
to a lower height?
6. I wish
A lifeA life
when i stimulated the prayers of rib-beat
when i licked the temple of my teeth,
speed pushed my fingers shaped like confessionals
clasped holy, carved my throat to fixing-
lover; i did this for the anthem of your eyes,
the feel of strangled feet crushing the fame of stars
for the glow of streetlight worship, for the moons
of your crooning throat, for the halls of your arms,
the strayed revels of your arms,
lover: you manufactured a god out of the drugs i used
and had me addicted to the divine, to the dignity of music
you pressed in my direction: just what i am, hallelujah,
marijuana, day and night-
lover, i fell in love with your culture
that preached the real definition of dusked kneecaps,
the plea of closeted throats, the whisper of bless,
unlearning how to say please god in borrowed tongue,
i fell in love with your attention, nervous grace
lover. i levied the rubble of my sins
Even The City KnowsIs it at all easy?
Being by yourself, I mean.
Sitting in a car, on a train, on a bus--wherever you might be now, isn't it hard to be a drifter?
There are no men with newspapers, no women with strollers, no love-crazy teenagers, no annoying toddlers, no anybody.
You stare out the window, like there are people out there, calling your name. The trees are out there, and they've lost all their leaves, all their buds--they've lost everything, just like you.
The sky is out there, and it's gray and colorless, just like you.
The stars are out there, and they're so blown-out-of-proportion, and they're just like you, too.
But the trees, the skies, the stars, they're used to being left alone.
You lack the ebullience of your drink, but it, too, is fading.
Frost has gathered on windows, on the ground, on rivers, everywhere.
Frost comes and goes, just like you, when you finally melt away.
The city draws to darkness and quiet--it disappears, just like you.
But, even frost
on bradbury and table dancingYou are not a wordsmith
whatever you might like to think. ('Smith'
indicates precision and coldness and fire:
words are softer than that unless you mold them strong.)
It's a difficult road to follow, and not many
make it past the fork. Choose a path,
Janus says, whirligig keys spinning on his shoulders:
I am a wordworker, with my tools too crude, forming
rough-edged carvings painted with pretty imagery.
Notebooks scattered across the landscape
of a child's room, to be stumbled across,
read, red-penned, in the thick and choking breath of night.
When the bough breaks
a hanged man laughs. He carries typewriters
in his pockets, and cigarettes in the soles of his shoes.
I will never be a word mistress,
whoring myself to the speech of people I do not know and will never know me.
The oven is set to Fahrenheit 452, but the words were already aflame
before they ever took shape under your tongue.
You love everything they've ever written, and carry
unabashed loathing for every syllabl
Synesthesia - III have learned not to say
when your voice burns under my tongue -
learned not to shiver
at the cold of sirens on the street -
learned not to describe
the pricks and strokes and touches.
I have learned that skin cannot hear,
nor ears feel
(whichever it is).
How strange to think:
I may travel all my life
and never find a lover who can hold my laugh in his palms.
Death to the LoversHe screamed,
He tore his hair from his scalp;
But it didn't bring her back.
The beautiful girl
With the gorgeous smile
And witty remarks
Would always lay six feet under.
She would lie in her death bed,
Her arms folded on her chest
And her face full of peace
Known only to the dead.
He would be the first to rot.
First his health,
Then his sanity.
She would forever feed on his emotions
Like a pretty little leech,
Sapping his well being
And happiness from her underground world.
And he would let her,
For a fool like him
Who allowed himself to love,
This room keeps on rolling.
The furniture breaks as it hits each wall.
Papers fly everywhere.
Metal flies into the wall sockets,
And causes blue sparks.
This is the tumbler.
The stones inside become smooth
And get a subtle shine.
Nothing can get in or out,
But we know what's happening inside.
You can stop the tumbler,
But you won't.
People can only stare
At things in motion.
To interject would be asking too much.
The room keeps on rolling,
But nobody wants to step outside.
They don't know what's happening there.
The world may be spinning around them,
And nobody wants to make that adjustment.
Keep in Touch!
^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More