Friday, October 30, 2015

freedom is bleeding and pain to begin


led weights oxidized
held across time, like chitin
sloughing off with skin


[note that you can always cheat haiku limitations via the title]



----

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Thanks,
Edward

Thursday, October 29, 2015

pony noir | part three: fade to black

[part 1 : part 2 : part 3 : part 4]

In a room full of manure it’s tough to find the right pile. Hardy reluctantly tossed two bits to a mean looking unicorn hulking near the door.

Inside, they all looked like desperate ghosts, too pale, too skinny. Above the bar bottles gathered dust. Each table was weighted with old wax and provided with multiple candles.

The barkeep pointedly looked away whenever somepony thrust a shaking spoon into a flame, cooking waxy stones into caustic syrup. Otherwise the clientele stuck to the shadows along the walls.

For several minutes Hardy stood near the door staring daggers in every direction. The candles burned bright, hiding everything outside their circles in shifting murk. All Hardy heard was heavy breathing and needy sighs.

With a snort, he clopped towards the bar. A sallow orange earth pony squinted at him from the other side.

“Whadda ya want?” she demanded.

Hardy put ten bits on the counter.
“Cider.”

She poured him a cup so watered down it wouldn’t foam.

“Know a fella named Two-teeth?” he asked loudly.

“Never heard of him,” she said with a pointed glance towards the far corner.

All ten bits slid into her apron.

A wan white pony clambered wildly out the door. Why did they all have to run?

Hardy wasn’t much on distance anymore, but lucky for him they didn’t call it molasses because it’s sticky. Slow junkies were Hardy’s personal favorite type.

The white, shaking colt had dropped out of breath in a surprisingly convenient alleyway. There was just enough streetlight for Hardy to make out the faded form of a paintbrush on the poor kid’s flank.

“Look I don’t plan to hurt ya,” Hardy spat out up front, failing to keep from sounding winded. “I just need to ask you a question about a book.”

“Ah, shit, pal, anything but that,” Two-teeth stammered. “Somepony, else turns up out there, they’ll know it was me. You don’t understand.”

“I’m just lookin’ for my friend.”

“You don’t get it. They’ll kill me.”

“I can get ya outta here, bud,” Hardy offered as kindly as the gruff old bastard could.

“You don’t understand. They’ll find me!”

You don’t understand; I already found ya.”

The kid clammed up tight, a sad quivering pile of nothing good.

Hardy sighed and took off his coat. Turning sideways the old brute flexed his back legs.

Cocking his head towards his own cutie mark, “Time was, pal, I could kick a brick to dust.”
Silence did all the talking for a bit.

“How long it been since you painted anything?”

“A while.”

“I got thirty bits in that coat on the ground. That can buy you ticket far away and whole hell of  a lot of art supplies.”

Quiet overtook the conversation again.

“Okay, fine!” the colt finally blurted.

“I’m listening, kid.”

Hardy didn’t see the surprise in Two-teeth’s eyes until it was too late.

A splash of stars and fade to black.





Wednesday, October 28, 2015

pony noir | part two: violent trails

[part 1 : part 2 : part 3 : part 4]

A long line of bruises brought Hardy Sweets from Foal Meadows to some dockside slum on the rump end of Manehatten.

It began with Salty Sly and a bloody lip. Salty shouldn’t have run. That led Hardy to Yellow Feather, a wimpy sleaze of pegasus.

Yellow was pretty small-time, really, a smuggler and conpony in one. He got six bit train tickets to places all over Equestria, then sold ‘em for a single coin. He’d tack on a “Oh hey, could you drop this package to my uncle Hot Stars? He’s a unicorn, long story…”

So far as Hardy knew, Yellow dealt in small stuff: bits and bobs, rare plants for mean little potions, griffon dust. He was also the best way to get a ticket on the sly.

It was too bad because Hardy and the pegasus had a misunderstanding over a hoof of cards, long time back. Boss still dealt with him from time to time though. It made sense. Yellow wasn’t talking, though.

He wouldn’t listen to reason. He wouldn’t listen to bits. He listened to pain. Hardy wasn’t all rough; he popped the asshole’s wing back into place when he was finished.

Stoney Twinkle dyed her mane and tail pink then headed east. Yellow thought she looked spooked and real mad all at once.

Hardy knew who to look for then. A long series of hoof fights, criminals he knew by reputation, and dodging patrol colts got him what he needed.

Stoney had bought some sorta antique book then left in the company Two-teeth Nectar, noted redrock molasses junkie and general sack of shit.

So, there Hardy stood under the seedy yellow light of the Seahorse Lounge.



Tuesday, October 27, 2015

pony noir | part one: headaches and exposition

[part 1 : part 2 : part 3 : part 4]

Celestia raised the sun too soon, Hardy Sweets was sure of that one. He rolled outta the hay and onto four shaking hooves. A cider hangover stuck like wet taffy. Through one big bloodshot eye, Hardy caught his reflection in the mirror.

He looked like hell. Hardy’s five-o-clock shadow was a day or two late. His once deep purple mane looked positively lavender, shot through with white. When had that started? At least his cutie mark still stood bold: two crossed peppermint sticks, ending in hammer heads.

He needed a wash and hayburger. Instead, he ran a hoof through his greasy mane and choked down the dregs of a cider cup. With a practiced motion, Hardy tossed on his well-worn fedora. Biting down on a licorice stick, the gruff pony strode out into the angry light of day.

The boss was missing. She’d been gone too long. It wasn’t like Stoney Twinkle to run off without notice. She was too careful. He didn’t like it, and tried to stop his thoughts just there. Like the grizzled stallion himself, Sweets’ thoughts never listened.


Over the past few days, he had tried to float her whereabouts out of Equestria’s underbelly. All it netted him was overextended bar tabs and a terrible headache. So much for the peppermint stick, it was time for the hammer.



[I believe this is the second piece of fan-fiction I've ever written.]

Monday, October 26, 2015

ragnarök

The silence trickled in like light rain, throughout the long night. Slowly, quiet and snow overcame all things. The last mortal breath froze piteous beneath still air. Even the wind did die.

The wicked gods rejoiced, for their mistakes had been undone. Long schemes had wormed and won. Most had met an end, but not before they birthed one.

Kind gods, if living, sighed and counted the end as kindness. White and pure the quiet, sunless sweep, hidden horrors buried underneath.

Only Loki was malcontent, as ever.  

Outwitting death, he walked the dark reaches. Loki found the lonely wretched glow of his wolfish son’s decay. Buried below soft fallen snow, still did it shit half-digested sun-fire.

Loki smiled. Loki frowned.

Gathered he then the holy fire and with it called many winds. Thus did Loki awaken the world.

Though, the world would likely chain him again.



----

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If you've gotten any worth out of these poems and stories and experimental fiction and what-have-you, please consider donating. Any amount would be greatly appreciated and help to ensure I am able to keep doing this.


Thanks,
Edward

Friday, October 23, 2015

the yellow wreck

Was it justice? Hard to say.

Mostly it was rage: white hot fire, the sweet release of cracking bone beneath his fists. He tried not to lie to himself. Most everybody else didn’t bother.

Which is why he was watching a parade, a parade in his honor. Head leaned on filthy concrete, he watched ‘em all flow by in the crack between the alley wall and an overflowing dumpster.

It wasn’t official or anything. Public officials can’t endorse murder.

Still, no one cries about rapists’ brains bursting on the sidewalk. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. He made himself remember the victim’s horrified face. It must’ve been quite a show. He couldn’t remember the details, not really. He almost never did.

Poor girl was still held up a Quiet Acres. He probably didn’t do her any favors. Splatter brains sure as shit wouldn’t be raping anybody else, though. Call that one a wash, maybe. Maybe not. The “hero” got what he needed though.

It wasn’t like he could just let it happen, right? He just never pulled back, never could pull back. Did he really even try?  Probably not. He tried not to lie to himself.

Instead he fished around through the garbage until he came across a half wrecked cigarette. Smoke across old ashes tasted like bitter needs. There was just enough to salve the hunger in his chest.

He’d fought for as long as he could remember. Ever since that day, the very last day he ever ran, he just kept swinging.

For some reason wearing a yellow balaclava made him less horrible. He got banned for life and had to skip bail for breaking some card-sharp’s jaw when he was 20. 10 years later, making some purse-snatching shithead suck soup through a straw got him a fucking parade.

He liked to hurt people, or maybe he needed to hurt people. He felt better hurting bad people... maybe just because the consequences were easier. Probably so.

He tried not to lie to himself.



----

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Thursday, October 22, 2015

cleave, together/apart

languorous livid lascivious,
turgid tumescent, relentlessly
swollen overripe, cornucopic,
ephemerally eternal exquisite,
laconically arid post-fruitful,
ephemeral only,
ever, always moribund


[unnecessarily written only in adjectives and adverbs]



----

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Wednesday, October 21, 2015

fragmentary notes from Fraederick Maypole (or perhaps simply a bad poem)

Not all goddesses were content to silently weave.
Not all great women take lightly the mock-justice of petty gods.

The Seven Armed Spinner in darkness.
Arachne?
too likely
Like a wolf with a trapped foot.
Ariadne?
accursed and escaped?
chewed free, small cost with 8 legs

seven-armed spinner in darkness
Geoffrey whispers from above
William waves in earnest glee
“Don’t you wish to be as happy as we?”

infinite fall, never drowned, always drowning
seethes and weaves and waits towards escape

7 by 7

Tuesday, October 20, 2015

two objects meet

It broke across Amelia like half remembered static. Was this disassociation? Was this the truth? Was it real? Did that really matter?

She rode out an oscillating wave of despondency and ignored feverish pin-pricks against her skin. She could close her eyes and avoid an unreal study in dayglo chiaroscuro, but she could not close her ears.

Beating hearts echoed across bulkhead and hull. Falling like irregular rain, such soft soundwaves, quiet breaths and pumping blood, skittered against the floor’s plastic grating. He was coming closer.

She could hear his tight breath flow through a ragged mustache. She could smell his desperation, paranoia, his sulfuric fear. He was too close. She would have to see.

He was above her, an angry green certainty in the unforgiving red. He leapt free from his violent perch; she rolled onto her back, kicking at empty space.

At the sweeping zenith of her foot and the height of his velocity, two objects met.

She limped away. He choked on severed nerves, unable even to gasp.

Within moments the carrion men were coming, old meat always gave them away. Amelia didn’t need a neon fit to know.

Amelia gripped her new chiv and made her unsteady way through sanguine light and heavy air.

Other Stories Part 1  |  Part 2
And another One




----

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Monday, October 19, 2015

you can imagine beyond but not likely live there

“I need caffeine and a creative enterprise,” the thought echoed in his head until lettered buttons were noisily depressed.

“But is there any actual point in it?” he asked himself.

“Certainly not,” he replied in the quiet of his mind. “All the more reason to accomplish it, only your own valuation makes this worthwhile.”

“But it is unnecessary and very unimportant on any timescale beyond or below human perception.”

“Yes; however, you live only in human scale. You would do well to acknowledge Deep Time and the sparking lives of dragonflies, but live fully within your own scale.”

“Live in the world as it is, as well as you can, not in the world as you wish it?”

“Precisely.”

“This is a hard lesson.”

“Yes.”



Friday, October 16, 2015

]untitled]

Upon the precipice, standing nearly still.
make ready, long looks toward rock-strewn shores.
clear waters and hidden pearls.

Perilous the fall.
Freedom sings far down.

Leap.

Thursday, October 15, 2015

john barleycorn

Cast it away. It is chaff.
Become the kernel, burst the walls.
Shudder, rupture, tear through,
undo the weight above you.

Spread wide green wings,
drink the light. Hold firm,
grow still chthonic deep.
Seek sweet moisture,
fled down and away.

Draw it up unto the day.
Unfix the air.

Bring sugar from sunlight.

Wednesday, October 14, 2015

uh-huh

tittering rings
joyous he springs
laughing delighted

he falls.
 -
giggling still
he calls, he calls
giggling still
he calls

Tuesday, October 13, 2015

prose poem 21 | first-fallen

One leaf, far too red, twists against an unseen breeze. Zephyr-born, it is torn towards the ground. Sanguine and languid it falls. Vermillion on grey, it dances past branches and fall heavy skies.

From the ground, with no sound, nor whisper of wind, it may seem to leap. 



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If you've gotten any worth out of these poems and stories and experimental fiction and what-have-you, please consider donating. Any amount would be greatly appreciated and help to ensure I am able to keep doing this.


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Edward

Monday, October 12, 2015

infinity in the “no questions asked” hotel

It was almost time. He was almost there. One thumb-print and the hard-lock released. A panel slid away, whispering into the wall on magnetic bearings.

Samson clambered forward into his high-stack luxury coffin. The ladder rolled noisily leftward, the very moment Sam cleared the door. Irregularly greased tracks and regular use conspired against an otherwise quiet evening.

It was the kind of room normally bought by the hour. There was just enough space for a tall man to perhaps stretch up on his knees, though he could not have fully outstretched his arms. Plenty of volume to satisfy the needs of hourly guests.

Most chose tight-coffins or stand-ups for shelter, those that had any real choice, anyway. Many were lucky to get out of the rain.

Samson could’ve bought better and probably should’ve bought worse; credits were hit or miss, rolling high and living low. He ought to have saved the scratch and leased a tight-box up front, but the luxury box gave him something he needed.

It wasn’t the usual thing.

When he was a kid, in a different world basically, Sam liked to bury his face in between couch cushions. If he could set it up just right, arrange the cushions and throw pillows just so, he could open his eyes and see nothing. He could stare, wide-eyed, at perfect darkness. If he got it just right, he could breathe cold air through the cracks and still see the black. There would be nothing but the soft sound of an air vent, his mother’s muffled voice, and chosen blindness.

If things got bad after he was out, he could pull the same trick with his hands. Light leaked in after a while, but it helped.

Back inside his rented room, Samson never touched the control screen. He lay perfectly still and waited. He smiled at the whisper of the closing door and the satisfying slap of his hard-lock.

He stared ahead, eyes fully opened, and drank in the perfect lightless void. Layers of steel, plastic, and pure-foam padding soaked away all the sounds. Nothing existed but black infinity and the contented sigh of Sam’s breath.


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------


So I've added a tip jar to the blog, in the form a Patreon Campaign. 

If you've gotten any worth out of these poems and stories and experimental fiction and what-have-you, please consider donating. Any amount would be greatly appreciated and help to ensure I am able to keep doing this.


Thanks,
Edward

Friday, October 9, 2015

Thursday, October 8, 2015

payment of time, post-due

It broke across like suffocating waves,
a caress of claws, half-retracted.
Fading away, into
the scraping draw of sleep-dry eyes.

Wednesday, October 7, 2015

two views

Furtively he puffed away. Clouds of vapor built a nimbus of the soft blue light ring above him. He was always smoking. He smelled like strawberry candy because of it, but no longer noticed the flavor across his spongey tongue.

The porthole was scuffed; beyond the smudge of stars little remained but unbounded black. Nothing out there but annihilation engines and emptiness.

….

She smiled. Every point of light, (even those long dead), twinkled its potential. There were worlds. There were new stars to see.

Gleefully she raced towards the light of unseen suns.

Tuesday, October 6, 2015

troubling strands, part the second

[click here for part 1]

He had time and space for thought, possibly an infinity of both. The wizened wizard hobbled along a broad walkway of stretched leather. Each step became a careful negotiation; the leather was not quite taut. He wasn’t sure he could take another tumble.

The wizard couldn’t remember when he’d had so much time to simply think. The surprisingly petty demands of his preternatural life ate up an asinine amount of his day to day.

He could do without the aching hips and screaming feet, though. The wizard had spent so long without touching the floor; it was a wonder he managed walking at all.

He ought to be offered a choice, any day now. If the situation had meant to kill him, the wizard would have starved some time ago. His hunger, of course, would never lessen.

“Ah well,” he muttered to himself, “pain means very little.”

He meant it. The wizard had lived for years without lungs, always aching in their absence.
This place was meant to wear him down.

The stubborn old coot had wrestled death, outwitted godlings, and stolen secrets from the stars. He turned his head and spit into infinity. It hissed against a falling ball of flame.

The old man snorted and shuffled along his way.


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------


So I've added a tip jar to the blog, in the form a Patreon Campaign. 

If you've gotten any worth out of these poems and stories and experimental fiction and what-have-you, please consider donating. Any amount would be greatly appreciated and help to ensure I am able to keep doing this.


Thanks,
Edward

Monday, October 5, 2015

another dialogue between a box and a pointy box

[o] = That's Insane.

{x} = Possibly.

[o] = It's dangerous too.

{x} = Living always is. In fact, it's 100% fatal. The thing is very few folks try really living. Most, or at least many, seem just to be waiting to die. 

[o] = It seems a bit unfair to dismiss the possibility of another's goals having value. That their valuations are less than yours. That their valuations aren't actual valuations.

{x} = Restated: Most appear to simply be waiting to die, as comfortably as possible.

[o] = That seems wretchedly accurate.

{x} = ...

[o] = Still though, is there no value in a median course?

{x} = Depends on the poles, obvi... 

[o] = *sighs*

{x} = Let's look at it this way. I do not have the means to get what I want from where I stand, to be happy in this exact placement. 

[o] = I'm with you... for now.

{x} = So I'm going to stop standing, and I'm going to, at least temporarily, have and desire much less. I'm seeking a new situation. I will not stand but move; I'll keep looking 'til I find a place where my dreams seem possible. 

I am finished with compromise. I am through trading joy for security, desire for comfort. I'll create what I want or I'll learn to love the spaces in between.

[o] = You may come to regret this. It could be a huge mistake.

{x} = That's an empty and superfluous thing to say. That is the very nature of choice.

[o] = True, but you know this carries with it greater risk?

{x} = What the fuck did I just say about security, comfort, and compromise?

[o] = Fuck. This is really happening, isn't it? 

{x} = Abso-goddamned-lutely.



Friday, October 2, 2015

full refund

From the Desk of Thomas Eugenia Crow Esq.

Written the 15th of April, 1902.

Mr. Andreas Alan:

I am writing you, sir, in the hope of recuperating damages caused by your staggering negligence.

You will surely recall my purchase of your grimoire, Bringing of the Multifarious Quietude, some time ago.

When the stars arrayed themselves, throbbing in precisely the irregular lattice of Diagram A-13, I initiated the 12th ritual. Riches poured not forth from my soil, but, by the blackest night, ruinous shadows sallied forth. Blood my soil drank, sir, blood!

Attached you will find two further items: an itemized list of damages (which I expect to be rectified forthwith) as well as a letter penned without duress from a mutual acquaintance in the beyond.

Such testimony should serve towards the veracity of my claims, in addition to reiterating my total adherence to your outlined ritual.

In conclusion, we both are aware no legal bodies govern such affairs so I shall attempt to rely upon your good faith. Sans such a possibility, extralegal and extranatural retributions may be in order.

Sincerely,
B. Adamson







Damages to Household - $250
Damages to Person - $35
Damages to Demesne- $45
Funeral of Tennant Farmer - $30
Easement of Widow’s Grief & Financial Burden - $100
Funeral of Tennant Farmer’s Son - $30
Purchase Price of Grimoire - $300


Please render the total sum of $790 ASAP.

Thursday, October 1, 2015

questions

What wretched new portent is this?
What fresh new obstacle will wrap 'round my footfalls?
Will it be brambles or barbless but broad fields of wires?
Will mist overtake the sun? Will fog overwhelm and extend?
Will I remember to look for fractionated rainbows before falling again?