all together, come on now, make it good

BACKSTORY

There was a gasp, followed by the tinkle of broken glass.
That, in turn, gave way to a deafening voice, spewing out string of obscenities and insults.

So fuckin' loud.

The Mole was sitting in the mud. He knew he'd been sitting there for a while. He couldn't remember why.
He opened his eyes. He saw his hands. Filthy. Thinner than they should be.

He heard a trembling voice beneath that loud one. he knew that voice. It was th' girl from the fields. Ella.
He smiled faintly. Ella. An ingenue. But she's here. A bad place. She shouldn't be here. Not in the mud. Not made to carry out the bidding of.. Loud man. Right.

The Mole lifted his gaze.

Spittle landed on Ella's cheek as the loud man continued cursing at her, taking hold of her shoulders and shaking her.

Then he slammed her against the wall.

The Mole flinched at the sight and sound of impact. That snapped him out of the haze. Shit. Right. The town. The fire. That sadistic, deafenin' freak. He marveled that he had been able to tune out that inhuman voice.

Ella was sobbing, trying to shield herself from the those horrible hands, poised to strike.

The Mole clenched his fists. This was too much. He'd survived on next to nothing for days, he'd been awake for far longer than he thought possible, he'd nearly forgotten who he was, and goddess fuckin' knows he was fuckin' fed up with all this bullshit. Goddess knows he was fuckin' done.

***

"I miss skin."

"..sorry?"

"Skin. Skin contact."

"Ah."

"Skin to skin. All over."

"I get it."

"Skin against skin."

"Look, if you're that desperate, we can go shag in the closet."

*SLAP*

{"Sure.."}

ending

she cradled the bleeding animal in her arms and wept.
"I'm sorry.." she whispered.






"I'm so sorry."

deep

deep in the darkest forest of slime, glutinous fabrication,
bottomless pits of deceit and cold winds of loneliness.

deep in the softest folds of rosy sheets and enveloping blankets and embraces of a loved one.
kiss by kiss by tumble by moan.

deep in the music coming from shitty speakers and the mouths of fuzzy individuals,
moving on the screen, moving on the screen, moving your mind.

deep in the sound/shape/touch of a word,
 using your tongue,
your lips,
    breath to create it,
breathe,
breathe,
breathe.

giving a go at slam poetry

(Let me tell you a story)
I'd like to tell you a story
Who wants to tell us a story?
Can anyone
Who
Why would one tell anyone a story?
Of what
Of what
Of the telling
THE TELLING HAS ARRIVED
(has always been)
(been here)
(been the telling)
Telling telling telling the telling of stories of lies of truth of singularities of the the telling telling

(Let me tell you a story)
Please
Let me tell you a story
You have to listen to
to the telling the telling telling telling
Let me, please, let me tell tell tell you you the telling
(Let me tell you a story)
I'm about to burst
The words are too many, too much, to munch on, I've gotta tell tell the telling telling
Telling telling (telling)

(Let me tell you a story)
I want to tell you a story
You can hear my story Listen
Listen to my story
Not MY story
Just my story
The words all inside of the little brain, the little person, the little soul, the little concept
(ze little grey cells)
(Let me tell you a story)
Let me tell you a story
Let me tell you a
STORY
of the telling
(Let me tell you a story)
(please)

from something from the 9th of May

"Oi!" the voice was accusing, and Lucifer flinched at the sound. Although it could have been directed towards anyone in the street, he had a feeling that the person singled out for tembral abuse was himself.
"Oi! You, with the violin!"
"Fiddle.." Lucifer corrected in a murmur, then lifted his head to see who was shouting at him. Approaching him was a rather heavyset, muscular man. He looked to be approximately forty years of age, was too well dressed to be a slummer, and yet his manner of walking as well as his language implied that he was definitely not from the mansions, either. Possibly some sort of bodyguard, maybe a messenger.
"You're not welcome here!" the man growled, grabbed one of Lucifer's shoulders and leaned closer, throwing a glance sideways as he did so. Then, quietly, in an urgent whisper: "I don't know what you've done, but there's a stoneThrower after you. Hit me to make it believable an' run."
Lucifer knew it was probably stupid to do so, but he hesitated, trying to discern if he was being lied to. The man shook him, "There's no time! Take your blasted violin and go, now!"and received a painful kick to the shin. "It's a fiddle!" Lucifer shouted over his shoulder as he took off, pushing violently through the crowd. Inwardly he thanked the man, for he could already he the howls of the stoneThrowers. The crowd started panicking, growing into a loud, barely penetrable mass of fleeing bodies. It wasn't hard to mingle, and Lucifer could move, (more importantly, dodge) fast. Even though making escapes was second nature to him, he wasn't sure if it was fast enough.

***

Lucifer just barely avoided falling off the edge of the roof, spotted an open window on the opposite building, and decided to chance it. He scrambled down a drainpipe, made a backwards bend to grab the ledge of a conveniently placed balcony, (thanking Kiara that the dense population of the city resulted in the houses having been built so close), and kicked off of the wall, swinging his legs over and onto the balcony, where he could have landed a bit more gracefully. Cursing and picking himself up, he paused to see if he had outdistanced his pursuers. A terrifying howl answered his question unfavourably, so he scrambled once more, getting up on the railing and awkwardly tumbling sideways into the open window next to the balcony.
He got up and then froze, because he found his eyes feasting on an unexpectedly lovely sight. A red-headed girl was standing barely a meter from him, staring at him in a frightened way, wearing nothing but a pair of dark green, lacy panties. Lucifer, recovering from the initial surprise (shock, from the girl's point of view), slowly reached out and tousled her hear. Thrilled that she hadn't yet screamed and/or punched him where it would have definitely hurt, he looked her up and down, smiled, and continued his flight by running across the room and diving out the only other window the room possessed.



stoneThrowers:
Beings from an old race, dark and powerful, loyal only to the DukeUnderTheMountain, (who practically runs the surrounding cities). They have chilling, double-voiced howls, (one medical doctor was particularly fascinated with their vocal chords, he has studied them for 7 years and has since then written 23 books on the extremely complicated anatomy of the stoneThrowers). As the name implies, they attack any offender by throwing stones, practically pebbles, at it. It may seem a feeble source of injury, but anyone who has encountered a stoneThrower knows that their precision is very, very impressive. And deadly.

We were in the walls, and..

We were in the walls, and we were infinite. Our senses had escalated to beyond comprehension, the electrifying brushes of fingertips turning into lightning bolts in a storm, each kiss triggering a myriad of chemical reactions, ravaging and wholly completing our bodies in turn.

We were in the walls, and an embodiment of a soft cloud. Of destruction. The jagged bits of metal, the crumbling plaster. Destruction was so, so soft.

We were in the walls, and we were dead. We were infinite. We had been here forever, and we will remain here forever. A lighting storm of long-gone intimacy, still present in almost every way. 

Mrs. Genadine woke up with the remnants of an extremely troubling dream. She didn't remember much, with the exception of a voice that had told her many things, curious things. She was now pestered by the notion that the previously brilliant idea of getting rid of that run-down old house of her nephew's now seemed very bad, oh, very bad indeed. It was bound to bring bad luck, what, being family heritage and all. 

Mrs. Genadine made a decision and sent an urgent telegram to the pleasant, suited man with whom she had made arrangements two days previously.

"Do not tear down Algibury summer house STOP Important STOP

Mrs. A. L. Genadine"

And so they hesitated. It was there, they knew, but it was too indistinct and far away to be seen. Yet it possessed a dauntingly powerful presence - a presence trying to strangle the delicate insides of every baa-ing corporate compliant out there. It was odd, having proof so close. Every day, there had been inklings, slight promises, sudden colours, dazzling flashbacks. And they wanted it, bad, they wanted to capture all the gasp-inducing, body-jerking colours of the mind, but the mind is coy. And they knew that they'd been lucky beyond belief to have been exposed to the samples, the concepts, even, that all they needed to do is fall into the blackness of genuine happiness. (We know the answers to most of our problems, and we will discuss this over tea, all the while screaming HEAL ME, HEAL ME, i HURT)

But now.. Now that it was there, within reach, neither wanted to be the first to open their eyes.
A conscious action, after all. Something that didn't just happen, it needed to be done.
Discomfort is comfortable, provided you have it around long enough.
And longing, oh, that's wonderful - it entitles so much delusional certainty. Why not continue forever?

HEAL ME, HEAL ME, i HURT

Tranquility at it's finest, don't you think?
And being a thing so fickle, it has ridiculous requirements prior to existing.
Effort, for one.
And effort.
Yeah.

(Also this friggin' thing called trust, I mean, seriously, people, if you're gonna make us go through all this shit, you could at least make these things hold up our personal walls properly, instead of having them crumble at every unexpected moment. It's a foundation, not a bloody detail we can shuffle around to our liking.)

Shiny, colourful, absolute answers lay on the ground, ready to be picked up and diluted enough for the human mind to understand. They burned.

Planet Tempus

Imagine a world with time sectors. I could be walking a group of visiting friends around and saying: “So this whole bit is 8 o’clock, and that over there is 08:10.” You could move freely around the kingdom, as long as it was clockwise. For a newcomer that’d be tricky, as the times shift constantly, but the locals would all but have the rhythm in their bones. There’d also be the dreaded Turners, people who travelled anti-clockwise and thus caused disturbances and time-loops, some of which they used to their advantages in, say, a robbery. Also, moving/travelling would be in turns of turning things, mostly. You can’t really keep track of your direction all the time. See, one would always stir their coffee clockwise, walk around the block clockwise, and even their houses would be designed with spirals so you’d always walk clockwise. There would be silly religions – The Left-To-Righters (Uppers) and the Right-To-Lefters (Downers), always quarreling what was the right way to smear butter on bread or place cobblestones while constructing a road. These religions are most prominent in the city sectors.

How much one complied to these rules didn’t matter much in some places (positioned slums), but in others, (Sacred places), where the particular spot connected to one or both of the two towers, it’d matter a whole lot. It could define whether or not there would be a time loop that week.

Now, the two towers are actually a single, well, spike that runs through the whole planet, two visible towers emerging at each end. It’s constructed of fitted crystal slabs which contain the energy of time, which control the time-shifts of the planet. Inside the actual spike there are long, colourful sheets of silk, forever swirling around and also having the function of containing the energy, as well as creating a very beautiful sight. Spectators come form as far away as neighboring planets to admire it.

The time–shifts occur once every 3 days/months, carrying a feel of time brought from the previous sector. There are 9 sectors all in all, sort of. It goes like this:

·      Sectors 1, 2 and 3 are the most orderly and controlled, known for their wealth and strict time rules.

·      Sector 4 is mostly known for it’s prosperous farms, open fields and good-natured inhabitants.

·      Sector 5 is considered kind of quirky, (hippie, experimental), not a respectable place in the eyes of the people of sectors 1-3.

·      Sector 6 is largely forests and forest people. That includes fairies and faeries, moon deer and Shortlings.

·      Sectors 7&8 are called The Lost Sectors, because they are not defined amongst themselves, and mostly consist of wastelands, deserts and wilderness. It is believed that nothing except the most terrible things can survive there.

·      Sector 9 is where the Palace is, a place for far-off and insignificant royalty. There are also lots of ruins, lots of memories of times that were better and worse, lots of forgotten history records. People who wander off while visiting have a tendency to return dazed, with no memory of their whereabouts at the time, or not to return at all. (Since sector 1 is so close to 9, it carries a slight reputation of unpredictability.)

(In ancient times, there were 12 sectors – a perfect timepiece. Some things happened, and one of the towers was critically damaged, and there was much chaos before our heroes managed to repair the affected areas enough for people to live at least coherently, and only forwards in time. Improvements to those repairs continued to form the system that controls the functions of planet Tempus today. The system is flawed, but it works, and serves its purpose.)

The time shifts also bring with them any weather characteristics that they might have acquired while turning over the rest of the planet. (The time sectors are also the atmosphere of the planet.) Sector 6 tends to have shitty weather, which, in this position, is fortunate, because it passes over the wastelands and calms down before reaching the more populated sectors, also watering the Umnge forests –(dense and impenetrable, naturally riddled with danger.)

We were in the walls, and..

We were in the walls, and Auntie Liza and Uncle Ben were in the overgrown cobblestones in the garden. Mother was in the cieling lamp in the bedroom, and Father was in the workbench in the shed. Gloria was in her collection of earrings, which was not a suprise, but then again Rufus was in the latch on the front door. Silly Rufus. Who's going to get in now?


Thanks to Kat for her lovely idea. 

Unexpected promises

The day was hot, the sun unleashing it's wrath on any being foolish enough to venture outside. Dhinaé was thankful for the thick stone walls of monastery and the shade it provided, though it looked as if she would have to stay there until the sun had relinquished its hold of the day and made way for the moon.

Might as well make the best of it. Dhinaé thought. She hadn't been inside the monastery before now. Looking around, she examined the intricate patterns on the floor and the religious ornaments.

An Ode TO Lucy

He stood, frowning at the breeze
A handkerchief tied 'round his knee
In his hand - something once lost -
He held the Book of Misery

Between his lips - a cigarette
A present, somewhat idle threat
A part of him, a price to pay
Absurd factor of regret..

He had no more dreams that day
The wind had blown them all away
His muse had gone on journeys long
(A pleasant, rather cheeky fey)

If his pen lay on the ground,
His notebook nowhere to be found
He might fondly turn to strings
Refuge lay in those low sounds

Sounds that stirred a distant call
Of paint splattered on the walls
Of words upon a screaming stage
Of a bloom, impossibly tall

The Book, now hurtling past the edge
Had felt rather priviledged
At being cast into the void
Instead of crushing all man's pledge

The smoke's trail in the air
Fled from Lucy's breath of swear,
Floated on with news to us
Of our dear old Lucifer.

Definition of comfort

As I read Stephen Fry's "The Hippopotamus", I continuosly ponder about how and why would what be considered an adequate inspiration, what quality of creativity that would unleash and how in the hell it should be evaluated. Again and again I find myself trying to see my nonexistent work through the eyes of people I have never met, people I don't understand, yet respect immensely. All of this having to do with the all-consuming phrase amour propre, the definition of which I Googled about an hour ago. Again and again these brilliant people take pleasure in crushing so many little buds through their characters, and yet they provide much needed nourishment for the actual buds/withered blooms that suck all this brilliance in. Everything I do is being done too late, so procrastination is both justified and the worst thing I could possibly do. The horrifying phenomenon of pleasing others is what drives this world through all of it's pathetic, money-raking circles, and also what comes as a kick-in-the-gut realisation as a worthy goal. Pleasing yourself, on the other hand, is an unforgiving act of egoism, and a vital element in aspiring to do something different, and then later - and element of seemingly endless and yet short-lived repetition.

[Looking at things too widely often does destroy the matter at hand, but trying to understand everything is by no means a sin. It provides a lot of misunderstanding, too.]

I cannot formulate my thoughts if I suspect I'm being watched of evaluated, even if not at the present moment - my torrents of pent-up words only find life by way of writing. I have a purpose, I know there are shiny little bits of good truths I have stumbled upon, but the only way to display them is to go through a big watering-down process, as well as intricate concentrating, and again, discipline, a concept to be feared and revered. A skill of combining "talents" must be put to use as soon as it is found or developed half-way, and well as a stressful rehearsal before unveiling it to the general public.

I love to learn, but I can only build a shell around me that protects me from less than half of the problems that I encounter. It's all to easy to convince myself of the darkest, lurking fears and failures. What follows is either a bumbling, emotional mess, or a numbness, followed by an attempt to deal with life as it is. I need help, but to mold myself into receiving what is offered to me takes just as much effort as defining what I need help with in the first place. Impossible choices and implications of priorities and sure to follow.

It's so easy to complain. To create something beautiful you must often douse it with a good amount of self-loathing, since that is apparently what people get off on these days.
And since everyone complains, you almost never get a chance to say something new, because it's simply an on-going topic that stabs you forever.
And even when you've finally done it, when you've created something you can pride yourself and others with, when you've succeeded in doing something "impressive", does it not cross your mind to question the point of the whole fucking thing? Is it actually beneficial to something worth making a fuss about? Should it be? If it isn't, is it a proud display of independent talent, or is it a show of mule-headedness?
Has your goal really been the creation all along, or has it turned into just fucking doing something, for fucks sake?

Chew on this, my pretties.

Inspiration by caress

[She] squinted, trying to get a closer look. The man appeared to be drawing rapid patterns with his finger on the lady's forehead. Then the man gave an odd twitch and started talking.
"Yeah, come out. I'll explain so you don't get any interesting ideas."
[She] jumped, then guiltily crept out from behind the dusty boxes, her cheeks a tad pink.
He continued:
"She's in a sort of a trance, you can see that. It's a very vulnerable state, as well as an unusually receptive one. I'm stimulating certain parts of her skin to influence her thinking in certain ways. It's not dangerous. It's not brain-washing. It's going to help her sleep."