parts of movies i can only just remember (although the titles are forgotten) remain buried somewhere in my head. chunks of cheap ninja movies. bits of trashy vampire films.
it's probably why i'm so weird.


mercy's a long-legged thingmercy's a long-legged thing always keeping its distance skimming on bone-freezing waters until a bloodied stone until the weak weight of ashes smothers some final words and when the gun cracks your teeth or the concussion of light proceeds to make a shriveled mannequin of you, it's usually conveniantly gone.mercy's a long-legged thing


only prismsyou wanted a story, a vision of winter. something about freshly fallen snowonly prisms
and the first incubating pangs of love. so i'm giving you this instead, not really a story, but a prism, an impression.
somewhere a train is building ashen clouds in a trail of imperfect pearls across the sky and somewhere a crust of snow breaks and swallows a frightened child, and in the distance there's
a prison, a cocoon, to keep you still, and once the ice thaws the land you cherised will no longer be the same. (these scars will take days to heal and even then everaf


cogsit's hard to discern the cogs of your favored favor; the lilt and glistening balance in the semblance of words and worlds. but sometimes there's a tunnel, sometimes there's a man with rusty scissors, sometimes i find my insomnia iscogs
only another nightmare.
it is hard to take the shape of a crocodile
from a few scant puddles of memory then make make it clean of ruin--pristine. i always find myself favoring
a weird leg, and my twisted appendage leaves a leafs windblown passage of wrecks and deep holes and sometimes I barely stand. but


a choreShe sat comfortably with subtle sounds in view of a window. If she could make a window, she thought, it would not be square, or even round. Perhaps a triangle in stained glass displaying a wide colored hue of blue roses upon her very chair. She pondered a window beyond a window, and accordingly: a house outside a house. It wouldn't do to have a triangular window floating outside, not attached to anything but a notion. There could be a whole stack of houses like Russian dolls, and the opening of each door would provoke the door beyond that to open provoking the next door in line. If there were so many homes just leaving would take forever, shea chore


We all fall downTonight, I am consumed:We all fall down
words spinning through veins,
blocking the oxygen to my brain
until I am asphyxiated
by consonants and connotations,
vowels a malignant tangle
like the rush of water,
the scream of sudden silence
that comes after
Tonight, I am constructed:
a mere reflection that glimmers
once across your pupils
before soaking into your retinas. A paint-by-number set
you memorized years ago
and lies buried beneath
half-finished projects on your coffee table.
Tonight, I am smothered casual
I loved House of Leaves, and have been meaning to reread it...
--
Breath and Death. We all have at least two things in common.
--
--
| ::Forget Your Memories, Remember Your Future:: |
"The Departure of Everything Real, is the Arrival of Everything True"
-E E Cummings
--
"True ease in writing comes from art, not chance
As those move easiest who have learnt to dance."
-Alexander Pope
~Writers
I'll be keeping a watch on any new stuff.
--
| ::Forget Your Memories, Remember Your Future:: |
"The Departure of Everything Real, is the Arrival of Everything True"
-E E Cummings
I like your ideas, but the words don't flow, and they don't seem to be chosen very carefully. There is no technique -- and I don't mean the kind of bullshit technique you learn in a class somewhere, I mean a personal voice. Sometimes it almost felt like you were reciting. Imagery had potential, but you stiffened it with mediocre metaphors. Still, your ideas more than compensated for this. I'll be keeping my eye on you.
--
ACCIDENT RETARD ACCIDENT RETARD ACCIDENT RETARD
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