I forgot how to move,
asphalt hands and rebar spine.
The laundry piled, dust mites bred,
my toenails grow like roots
into the floorboard cracks.
These history hands
wilt at my sides, and seep
into the fiber folds like honey.
Dust memories make the room soft
and brush my ankles when they settle.
The tired walls sag and cave,
my breath is stuck and still.
My bedsheets are stained
for every lover cracked
against window panes.
60 dollars of sweat on
sticky summer nights.
Clock says 9:51, we
call it 10:00, living in a rhythm
minutes work overtime.
I watched my life running
over sand, mountains,
deserted corpses that bake
in the desert,
none of it made my stomach
ache, so I hammered a stake
through my left foot and stopped.
I took the time left, flushed
away every second
one day at a time and found static.
The background radiation of my life,
transfixed; as nothing should
ever be. I began to carve,
a notch for every moment I held
back, wove it all together,
wound my life slowly
forward, 81 hour days,
84 hour nights.
I’ve died many times,
met millions of people who watch
themselves die, ungrateful
of their ability to watch.
Your eyes are alive in your living head,
your heart beats to make your blood dance,
so dance, children, but ever slower.
I’m so done with you skippers believing that you’re way is better than the highway just because being on the highway isn’t actually the ‘high’ way. Your apathy is religious, and I hate to see it fall off your shoulders and saunter around the room nipping at the ankles of every predetermined overachiever. Some of you are waist high in shit you never even believed because of people you never even cared about.
I was there once. It came to me in a suit and tie with a sales pitch that said “are you tired of listening to people vomit facts onto the floor? Are you sick of rearranging their shit to try and cough it up later? Boy, do I have a solution for you.” It was then that I determined that the entire system is utter shit, that I was going to create my own; a labyrinth of books and ‘fuck you’s to anyone who tried to convince me otherwise. I lined up my predecessors for assassination, a shotgun to the head of anyone who had ever told me what to do, who to be, and what to believe. For weeks my hands were stained the dark red of revolt. I had my eyes sewn on my back to watch convention trip up while it chased me down, but, boy, was I fast.
It was a long time before I allowed myself to dabble in the untouchable notion that I just couldn’t win this battle. I was built for the system. It was programmed into me the moment I learned to say ‘please and thank you,’ a child of the Matrix, a code that read ‘consume, preach, fuck,’ and so we began. We are the designers of the mold we fill. You can’t fool the system, children. It is the air we breathe.
I always find a reason to be hopeless.
A thought waded through my mind, taking its time,
saying ‘those dimensions are alien,
we can’t try to rhyme
with notions so unorthodox.
We live in a space-time continuum,
a four at most,
humans can’t dabble in sixes
and sevens, let alone tens
A Universe, one of many,
many of untestifiable testimony.
What is this pursuit?- evidence cannot be found
in the curvature of a telescope lens.
We are a four at most,
spiraling through a void of
and all we see is energy.
We could be dividing and stretching,
morphing through sevens into eights
and all we see is fucking energy.’
If strings are the closest we can get to the knowledge of our lack of understanding, then bind my wrists, drag me out into the multiverse.
What started it was when I actually had the thought: why are we even trying to define the Universe with our laws that are only definable in our little space-time dimension that we’re in? It’s ridiculous to think that this universe exists only in the way we can see it, but we have no way of testing for laws in higher dimensions because we just can’t. It’s fucking hopeless. We try so hard to figure this shit out; we’ve gotten far but there’s only so far we can go with this. That’s not to say that I’m going to jump off the bandwagon now, though.
For me, the sky
was the colour of Jews,
rain like grey pencil shavings.
So many humans,
so many colours.
There is air like plastic
the visions begin to pour and fall
and occasionally limp
from the horizon
like setting glue,
and there are soft, coal-coloured clouds,
beating like black hearts.
And then, there is death
carrying shivering souls like suitcases.
The sound of crying children kicked and punched,
shower after shower,
there were broken bodies,
and dead, sweet hearts.
The smell like a stove,
but still so cold.
Yes, for me, the sky
was the colour of Jews.
They streamed by,
like humans water,
a catalog of colours
with bones like smoke,
their souls trailing behind.
How to perfect the art of forgetting.
Remember me as a time of day,
as B block spare and 50’s fries.
Remember me as the field we’d lay on
under the sweet cavalier warmth.
Remember me as carelessness,
for we were wildly free
in a delicate sort of way.
Remember me as rainy walks
and awkward talks,
as a music room college
and a crossword puzzle defeat.
Remember me as a possibility,
but for the love of all it’s worth,
please don’t remember me
as a loss.
My short story has turned into a poorly organized expository essay and I only have 700 words left to carry out an entire plot line and make it acceptable WHY
I like the concept though. Imagine a species like this. Incruenta Sapiens.
This is a story about anti-humans.
A race that never was, and a Hell that will never be.
We’ve folded the fourth dimension through the fifth and observed the anti-human beings along their journey through merely space and time, and this is our result.
Relative to Homo Sapiens, Incruenta Sapiens lack certain aspects of the temporal lobe resulting in diminished emotional connections between units. This has been believed to be their most evolved attribute as the result of severe punishments for highly emotional outbreaks. They are highly logical in comparison the previous human species, and have advanced much more rapidly due to their lack of emotion investment and ability to be racially united. This has allowed their offspring to be highly independent of parental care, thus adult maturity may be reached after only 10 years from birth. Incruenta Sapiens have a unity that Homo Sapiens could never achieve, and this has allowed them to advance and dominate extremely quickly without perishing through self-destruction.
Survival of the fittest has been the main goal for Incruenta Sapiens. At the primal age of 10 each unit begins to judge themselves against other units, determining whether or not they are fit to live among their own race as an intelligent being. Should they feel that they have something valuable to offer, they allow themselves to live. However, should the opposite occur, they self-terminate.
There is no government, no capitalism, no religion, no war, no countries and no competition, for competition requires an ego. Incruenta Sapiens invest their time in future plans rather than immediate benefit. Each unit works genuinely for the good of the entire species, mechanically destroying unused units and methods, and creating way for new life. In this respect they have become more robotic than human.
She spends her nights drinking under-aged wine and breaking the glasses. A new glass for every regret, every time she started the car but went no where.
‘Pathetic,’ she whispered, ‘I’m crumbling.’
I’m not a compassionate person, but sometimes I can feel so empathetic it consumes me; it makes me feel weak in the knees and soft in the stomach. There aren’t words to explain it.
Writers are supposed to put feelings into words, but it’s so crippling. Trying to describe empathy is essentially trying to make you feel empathetic towards my feelings of empathy.
Watch your father buy you liquorice as a special treat on a sunny day to maybe show you a fraction of the love he feels for you, only to have your mother yell at him because it was before dinner; then feel the collapse of your chest as his face crumples and his good intentions are shot down and misunderstood.
I take great solace in solitude. It’s almost a sin to write about it, because that defeats the entire purpose of seclusion. That means someone, somewhere can read these words at some point in time and I wouldn’t be alone anymore. I can be anything I want when I’m alone-not that I would be anything else, but knowing that I have that option gives me considerable contentment; I don’t have to be anything.
I used to dream about you every single night. I remember telling you when it happened because it wouldn’t work if I lied about the way I felt. You would smile your cancerous smile and ask what it was this time. I felt pathetic saying we only held hands. In the vast terrain of my imagination, all that surfaced was your hand in mine and a goodbye smile. It was always goodbyes with us. I would dream of your hands, skin of silk, because even something that small was worth dreaming every single night.
So I guess it’s strange to say that I dreamed of you last night; unorthodox and hauntingly beautiful like black orchids pressed between yellow and white, and skin like satin.
Every Earth movie, like Planet Earth or Oceans, they all get to me. They make something happen, deep down; a raging conflict of hope and loathing while being so beautiful it literally brings me to tears. It’s a whole feature of life that I’ve never seen, and I’m so thankful but so mortified that we’re defacing something that phenomenal, our home.
I’m actually just lost for words. There’s nothing more modest and inspiring and breathtaking than the very planet we live on.
I solemnly can’t even convey how motivated I am to learn right now. I’ve finished not even half a book on da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, which explains the whole story leading up to how Leonardo actually got the idea.
It starts way back, before Christ even, with an architect named Vitruvius who studied the human anatomy and found all these divine qualities we posses. From this, manifested the notion that, not only are we physically and spiritually connected to God, but also that we are one with the cosmos.
We are the Earth in conscious form. Our bones, stone; our nails and hair, plants and trees; our blood, rivers and streams; our ability to produce heat, fire; and so on. God was not just a creator to them as it is to us today. God was the universe and all its mysterious endeavors.
All of this is displayed in the evolution and interpretations of the different ‘Vitruvian Men’ throughout time. I haven’t actually gotten to the part where da Vinvi comes across it, but I’ve been learning about his early life and how motivated he was to learn and invent. He is my biggest mentor. I’m so inspired right now.
The book is called Da Vinci’s Ghost, in case anyone is interested.