Tuesday, September 13, 2016

The End

There was this guy, right. And... And He like fell into the void and saw the color of cosmic latte, the beige average of all things. It was underwhelming. Then he choked on the absence of pressure and died, probably.

Anyway, official notice, this blog is done. It hasn't been daily for a long while. It hasn't even been week-daily in quite a peck.

I'm not done blogging. Certainly not done writing. But this particular experiment is long over.

For somewhat obvious reasons, I'm kind of over the URL too.


Onward to bigger and weirder things, y'all!



I'm off like a prom dress.

   -Evey
    [-_-|  zzzzzz

Tuesday, August 30, 2016

An Ode to Careful Eyes and Cosmic Collision


Magnetotactic aligned as it must.
Organic forms in geometric directions.
Follow paths you might never see, could never feel.
Leaving behind crystalline corpses
to be seen by careful eyes.
Lines laid out by rotation,
iron and nickel spinning
deep, deep  below.

Did you know the death of stars births the heaviest elements?
Only twinned collision can build our precious gold.

We have waves and seasons,
long, calm cycles and reasons,
only because of collision.
Even mother moon was birthed in violence.

Smile when she shines.

Distortions in space-time by the presence of weighty volumes.
Creation and impact become one in the same.
Hurling winds, static, and light, and potential towards us.

Life is a byproduct of stars and stubborn chemical reactions,
refusal and collision keep us living.

Wednesday, August 24, 2016

steeping song

I wait, I wait for
for oils to escape, from leaves
dried, dead, and broken.

Saturday, August 13, 2016

slow reaching specter.
time misidentified in
broken conjecture

Thursday, August 4, 2016

Reading De Profundis in this Election Cycle


Tight in my chest,
dramatic gothic expectant.
Expectorant.
Let foul humors flee me
in phlegm, spilt blood, and tears.
Green light and Golden afternoons
too often not often enough.
Free. Calm. Casual.
And other dance partners I shall never know.

Known and ignored.
Espousing wreckage,
wanton malignant cysts
of insidious intent
hide reason from action,
language from noise.

The deaf congratulate one another on their hearing.
What will become of this?
They won’t even have to hear it.
They’ve no cause.
And I fear them.

Saturday, July 23, 2016

stagnation


Wait
Wait for the pills
Wait to breath
Wait to be
The coffee will work soon.
Just wait.
The cure is just around the corner.
No don’t just go around.
See.
Nothing there. Yet.
Wait.
Good things will come.
Well, not from around that corner, now.
Wait.
Perfection is possible.
It’s better not to move until you’re certain, sure.
Yes. Just wait.
 Maybe just a nap today?
Wait.
The long sleep’ll be coming ‘round.
Well. Around some other corner.

Maybe.


Sunday, June 5, 2016

stark naked neo savages and sanguine city states



Even in the monochrome scrubs, next to the black and fragile sea, rainbow skies can be seen.

Somewhere in the spray-damp crags, a hidden hungry city sleeps.

Somewhere down below, glass domes disguised as stones pollute red light into the fine shining mist.

Somewhere behind, men, women, and children wear only the blood of their enemies.

Somewhere in back of bitter hills, lazer tribes ceaselessly war, up and down the river wide..

Somewhere, just left of frame, folks break their bodies and send their souls into colonies of idiot, neon crabs.

Nowhere is there safety.

Nowhere is there normalcy.

The mathematical mean of this place averages to madness.

Monday, May 30, 2016

fuck yesterday


It was like trying to roll a cigarette with wet thumbs, seemingly possible but a guarantor soft ripping failure and unfilled hunger.

No. That’s not quite it.

It was more like missing your glasses for days. The whole affair became little more than squinting and bleary guesswork.

Of course, there was a brief triumph in finding spectacles beneath the bookcase. Happiness merely drowned in disappointment, because the damned things were scratched beyond use.

Maybe not.

It’s like trying to fight in a world of uncaring marshmallows. No matter how well they were torn, beaten, or worn away, the grinning fools just kept on grinning. They sang their cheery little songs  even as sticking clumps of massacre on some summer sidewalk.

Okay. That’s a little closer.

I mean, the whole situation was like a perfect example of superfluous action bereft of meaningful consequence.

I mean, fuck. 

It was powerlessness without bonds, with a totality of free movement. It was all of this to no noticeable effect.

It was pissing in the wind only to have your urethra suddenly explode.

It was picking out the perfect fantasy football lineup, only to have all your players benched for cocaine dog fighting.

It was surreal consequence divorced from probability, and all likely causal events.

It was life I guess.

Yesterday was life-full as fuck.

Fuck yesterday.

Thursday, May 26, 2016

swallowing dreams

wet waiting
drown in salty tide.
convulsant.
seeking needing 
wet and swallowed
an Ouroboros

wet seeking, needing
fulfilled and fulfilling by turns
wet bright need
and swollen, pink perfection

joyous waters flood
wet happy tears

Wednesday, May 25, 2016

Tuesday, May 24, 2016

blushing spring

The chrysalis chips in a promise breaking free.
A quick flap of color spells the barest hint of a wing.
Blossoms part like red, laughing lips.
What more beauty could be than this?

Monday, May 23, 2016

Hectic heretical the spectacle
indelible painted on…
Bombastic and elastic, such tragic
ways to die,
to yawn.

To force of invisible trains.
By way the mystery rings

I like this way it reeks of treason
Met halfway,  abandon’d of reason
I cry. Guess why?
I yawn.

Psychedelic is the relic
And a sock full’a secrets

why do



i yawn

Thursday, May 19, 2016

The Birth and Armaments of Athena


Her gestation was long and dark within the incredible void of his organs. Violently she burst free from him. She tore wide his terrible skull, like an angry egg.

Was the sea wine-dark that day, I wonder?

Did she carry a labrys? Was there a serpent in her hands?

She was what he had swallowed, refined by long torment, a pearl of imperfect femininity. She brought war with her, but also wisdom, and weaving, and olives.

She entered the wretched world in a triumph of accidental justice. (She remained more twice-born, and much harder formed than Dionysus.)

I believe her only helm to be manumitance, the bleeding red of rebirth and liberty.

Her shield was nothing more than foresight. 

Her hips were a round promise. Her cleaving falcata matched the line of her strong legs, the exquisite bow of her lips. 

She slaughtered, wisely, but, alas, in vain. The weary world was not, is not, ready for her reign.



Source and License for Image

Thursday, May 12, 2016

accidentally taking a break from this blog

Homelessness ain't conducive to regularized blogging.

How fares our grand experiment? How am I? How are we?

Here is where we're at:

When I asked Olan (our 2.5 year old) if he was happy yesterday, he said, "Yah!" 

It was so much more than that, though:

He said yes with a tone implying any other response was ludicrous. We are doing well by him at the very least.

My pain ebbs and ebbs, waxing overfull. 

Sharaya remains particularly pregnant.

We continue to be homeless in/near/around Portland.

I can't look for work. I can barely function.

I limp. I wince my way through a world of uncertainty; only pain, sadness, Sharaya, and Olan are constants.

We could use some help.

Ways you could help, maybe:

patreon for this blog : CLICK HERE!
you can buy this book I wrote: CLICK HERE!
you can donate via this fundraiser: CLICK HERE! 

or donate directly via paypal: punkrocumentary at gmail dot com
(We're drastically overdrawn, so paypal is the most direct way to help us.)





Friday, May 6, 2016

rest your weary head

Deep red sheets were tightly tucked. Corners covered in right triangles, folded under into a crisp, perfect pleat. An ecru blanket lay in bulk atop an old mattress, smothering the vague lump of pillows beneath. The single form atop it all was, of course, a shining sham in marigold and rust.

The dark wood and sanguine piping of an ornate headboard leaned in and down. Looming in decumbent imitation of vines, it hung heavily upon a dusty wall of lathe and plaster.

The bed awaits your weary rest.


Sleep deeply.

Thursday, May 5, 2016

thanks, yo

Before the medication,
Before the caffeine (almost)
Ok so I've had a little coffee.


Thank you.

I wish I could have been eloquent.

Maybe, maybe it was better this way?

I had to blurt out my feels without the elegant pretext of pretty words.

Anyway, I hurt. My world is made up of shadows and pain.

But, I am better.

Thank you.

Maybe I will understand how to human someday.

If I do, it'll be somewhat your fault.

Ո     Ո
| (• ◡•)| (❍ᴥ❍ʋ)

Wednesday, May 4, 2016

nouns alone

breaks, bones, wounds, and secrets

fear, pain, sorrow, and void

fall, death, and leaves
red, purple , and blue

pages, parades, and pregnancy
pins. eyes, prophecy, and horror

Tuesday, May 3, 2016

Inevitable,
It swirls, and pulls of seeming
Direction, it is
Not wholly given
And random and  haphazard,
But partially choice.

Monday, May 2, 2016

horror pony business | part 2 – blood butterfly



Stony Twinkle
Hardy Sweets


It was messy in a way I’d never seen, and I’m no stranger to dead ponies. In abstraction, it was oddly beautiful.

Or maybe I just decided it so. I had to keep it together. Going noodle-y would do anyone any good so I fought to keep it distant, abstract:

a delicate tangle of intestines spread out into unlikely wings
aortal spurts spelled out a rough dream of antennas
it was a chrysalis of death

I stumbled away to vomit. Hardy stepped in to stand between me and the body.
“Royal Guard’ll be here by tonight,” Police Chief Dandy Prance woodenly declared, looking at neither the corpse nor the crowd. His apple green eyes were too wide, and his big green face decidedly pale.

I looked hard at the ground. The yellow cobblestones seemed supersaturated in the hard morning light. A tiny, rusted red spec wetly gleamed. A hoofstep away, another sanguine droplet shone, then another, and another.

I walked away with my head hung low, muzzle towards the ground. Hardy fell in behind me.The trail took us towards a shaded back lane. I could clearly hear the tip-tap of Hardy’s lead “fighting” shoes.

The old bruiser was always ready to scrap, the sort to try and buck his way through any and every situation. I was glad to have him at my back.

Thursday, April 28, 2016

last of its kind

My breath would sort of half-catch at the back of my tender throat. Do you know the sensation? Like with a peanut skin or popcorn hull?

It’s so much more singular, though. Swelling shuts it off, not some outside object. Your own body begins to choke you.

All you can do, all I can do is wait. One of these days, it won’t unstick.

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

awake

I was alive. The wet, open pain of my wounds let me know real damn quick.

Impulsively, I pulled away from the sticking carpet. Red, stiff, and brittle fibers encrusted the ruination of my favorite t-shirt.

A dusty mirrored surface tried to sell me beer, but I narrowed my focus. In reflection, I saw an anticlockwise and filthy gap in the skin of my cheek. Ragged edges oozed around stuck threads and filth. It ached in unventilated air.

All the other wounds appeared to scabbing over, stuck within the aftermath of my clothes.

There wasn’t much to be done or to feel so I walked out into the thick afternoon.

What more could I have done? My corpse was the only one still moving.

Tuesday, April 26, 2016

embrace an old friend
tightly held and jaggedly
wrought, unrelenting

pain

Monday, April 25, 2016

song is heard from beyond an overgrown hedgerow

♫ ever away, the bones they go,
ever away the bones they go
all the way away, away
all the way away

Turning to Day! the night she dies,
she di-ies, di-ies
she dies she dies she dies

ever away, the homes they go,
ever away the homes they go
all the way away, away
all the way away

There's blood in the sink!
But here in a wink!

it all will go away, away
it all will go away ♫


Friday, April 22, 2016

like an echoing cannon like an sorrowing care against bitter movement from flies brightening spark illuminate a face screaming in the dark

Thursday, April 21, 2016

in the woods of my first neighborhood, were hunted songbirds

I spend so much time pretending, convincing that insanity is power is insanity is power. It’s probably a lie, but I am not left with much else. ([Try not to think of killing myself.])

There was vent, in the house, I grew up in. Running an RC-car in reverse made it a radio, briefly.

Is that me? An accident of machinery? Functioning almost, most briefly?

What has happened to the turning wheels we heard?


Wednesday, April 20, 2016

the lamentation of tomorrow's nymph

If only I could sit still enough, I could go away.

I could grow away:
piney fresh and green.

Hot green leaves waxy, waxing hot, shading cool beneath a torpid sun.

If only I could be still enough, my half reflection real enough, I could grow:

Down, down through safe roots,
                         &
Up. up branching, fraying into sheltering leaves.

If only I could be still enough, I'd not even wish to be a tree.

Instead I'd not worry, even as a bush.

Let me shrink without needing to think, or to know:
my not dissimilar lack of control.

Even then, I would not own me:
but instead be leased as a part and parcel of the land.

Tuesday, April 19, 2016

oopsie daisies

the internet fails
betrayal at times bears fruit
strange, sour, or sweet

Monday, April 18, 2016

life as an observant causal plaything

In vast reaches it teems alone in great numbers. Its scent would be like limonene and pine trees.

However, the vastness of immaterial space renders such observations impossible.

In sparking bursts between scattered particles, it is little more than an accident of awareness. Like 10,000,000 naked eyes, it knows. It exists and interacts but it does not direct. It cannot respond.

(For instance, strong gravity wells strike it like a sour taste. I can and will do nothing to avoid them, however.)

Through time an space, it cannot but dissipate; spread thin and dying a bit with each passing object.

Still, it is vast and will endure for great, dwindling time. 

Friday, April 15, 2016

marijuana is legal in WA, too

a coincidence of shoe boxes
exited rhetoric of shopping incredible
stories prove to be horrorshow funny

Thursday, April 14, 2016

the virgin lands





The Virgin Lands had never known the footfalls of men. (Never you mind the ghostly steps of Quiet Ones.) Loamy soil broke in glee against sea-salt pitted plows.

Some few homesteads have bloomed into towns. Even fewer towns have splayed into cities, most hugging tight to the coast.

Iron and fools still  flood towards vague hopes in this new place. Lumber, crops, and precious potash bleed back toward the Old Homes. However, nearly half of returning trips flounder and drown. Still though, iron tools and desperate fools keep coming.

You should know, before your charter your boats, ten paces outside city bounds quickly shifts to deadly wilderness. Wilderness that cannot be.

Why do mad castles and wimpled maidens await in far off forests deeps?

Why do wet nymphs call from crystal streams, bedecked only in foreign flora?

Why do moldering Empire ruins stray so far from the Old Homes?

How did the Quiet Ones loose their tongues? How long had they been here before us?

I do not know.

And who would come to such a strange and dangerous place?

None who are well. This much I can surely tell.

Wednesday, April 13, 2016

thanks

There is a port in the storm.
Perhaps it is not all silent void and screaming pain.
Maybe hope kills less than faith destroys.

Tuesday, April 12, 2016

horror pony business | part 1



It had seemed innocuous enough, but there was the corpse staring blankly up at me, all four aquamarine legs horribly askew, pastel skin painted blood and rust red.

Really though, the grin got to me. Flesh hung ragged, ripped away from terrible teeth. It was kind of my fault.

It was a bad start to a long and hateful day, everypony.
Two-teeth’s poor mum, Candied Calm, lay dead at my hooves.

Monday, April 11, 2016

makeshift metaphors

A bubbling breath of friendliness slowly soured in her mouth, and fell tinny on the ears. Frequencies, more so than languages, did not properly align. The guiless cannot speak to those who need kind lies.

Her honesty had no place in a world of “How are you?” without a following pause. 

She was like a horse in heavy traffic: functional but not ideal, unfortunate for all involved.

She did not fit, and I can only speak of her in clumsy simile. What then does this leave us?

Friday, April 8, 2016

about a pear

An overripe pear hung heavily, round and ripe.

Brimming it held in pregnant potential for some seeking tooth. Ready to burst with half-hidden juice, the fruit promised a wet mess across some waiting face.

How could one not wish to eat a seeping font of nectar so sweet?

Thursday, April 7, 2016

park thoughts

Hide away your nakedness. Hide away too, other honesties and happiness. Tuck it like sheets, folded beneath bed skirts. The world is only sin & noise.

Wednesday, April 6, 2016

a trip to the hospital left me pretty high on 'scripts

mailboxes push me back,
a tangle of telephones attack.
ringing and stringing with
remembered twisting cords

insistent connection absorbs


an avalanche in a fever dream

prose poem 26 | stranger at home in a strange land

Dissonant waves and blank pages, what more could there be than this?

How had I preached for freedom, without experiencing it?

Self-donned fetterlocks & forebearance, forsooth, by my troth, I wore.

I measured my life in soft lies and unliving wages, but no more, no more.

I am broken and bleeding but washed up on friendlier shores.

Monday, April 4, 2016

reactionary

alarum , alarum
it’s screaming again
decorum, decorum
it’s come to its end
every hour, and twice on some
innocence dies long past was it young?

Saturday, April 2, 2016

Agency File 6.0061

Diary of [Redacted],
7/16/##

Bird song is beautiful until you understand it.

It becomes violent cries of territory and demands for sex. What once was beautiful will forever be tainted by immutable knowledge.

Such terrible knowledge.

Still, I wished to know more.

From Bohr and Einstein, I turned towards Paracelsus and Pythagoras. I found the hidden pattern in [Redacted]  and [Redacted].

The sun hates. The stars are filled with laughter from this joke of creation.

Now I know. I KNOW.

Formulaically it can be expressed as Redacted] .[Redacted] = [Redacted]
               [Redacted]

I know now. I know NOTHING.

The truth is a bitter pill, but still, I seek it.

Know that your your source has been outed and processed. Soon you will be as well.

First, however, you will suffer. The Agency cannot tolerate such a breach.

On a personal note, please do run. It has been ages since I've tasted  compelling prey. 

Agency File 6.0019


"The Lumpback Floating Turtle frowns w/o reason. Dangling sympathetic algal streamers provide its nourishment. 
"Perhaps it somehow remembers cold, dead fish broken within it's beak."

Only remaining page of a moleskin notebook, mailed to the FBI Public Relations Department September of 1998. The return address simply read: "Darkening Dream Soon to Be"


Wednesday, March 30, 2016

journal entry 3/29/16

what I saw today:
Concrete steps into the river deep.
So many flowers in bloom.

The flowers are yellow eyeseyes, it knows.. shift shitf HELP!
[̺͆Є̺̺͆͆V̺̺͆͆Ī̺̺͆͆Ŀ̺̺͆͆ ̺̺͆͆ƚ̺̺͆͆Ø̺̺͆͆И̺̺͆͆ ̺̺͆͆$̺̺͆͆Є̺̺͆͆Ø̺̺͆͆Ð̺̺͆͆ ̺̺͆͆ƚ̺̺͆͆Ī̺̺͆͆ ̺̺͆͆$̺̺͆͆Ц̺̺͆͆ ̺̺͆͆Ǥ̺̺͆͆И̺̺͆͆Ø̺̺͆͆♏̺̺͆͆A̺̺͆͆ ̺̺͆͆$̺̺͆͆Ī̺̺͆͆ ̺̺͆͆ƚ̺̺͆͆Ī̺̺͆͆ ̺̺͆͆Ħ̺̺͆͆Ǥ̺̺͆͆Ц̺̺͆͆Ø̺̺͆͆Ħ̺̺͆͆ƚ̺͆]
do not help there is no hope

Surprising yellow flowers on thin holly bushes.
A girl with blue hair vigorously assigning handicaps in a footrace of varying age groups.
Kindness in strangers.
Sweet exhaustion turning sour in my knees.

And a world of waking trees.

Monday, March 28, 2016

uncertain if I am lying

Like sick fire, swelling down my spine.
Deadened flesh in void of my chest.
Tension ticking with every hateful breath.
I tell the cashier I am fine.

Saturday, March 26, 2016

prose poem 25 | numb and feeling

It wasn’t fire so much as the needle-heat of an allergic reaction: uncomfortable, almost unbearable, not pleasant.

There seemed an endless well of it, waiting around dark corners, in ambush, deep down inside.

The unimportant took on maniac precedence. Beauty had no way to reach him. Tears were a sweet relief so far removed from possibility, he rarely even remembered to try.

The sunlight looked plentiful and possibly grand until he broke the threshold. Then it became intrusive, insistent, or, sometimes, simply fled away.


He supped on little more than panic and void.

Friday, March 25, 2016

neon noir at the "Back Door"

Ghostly strains of skittering static melody came from somewhere in the corner. The ceiling was low and the dive was lit like two ancient computers fighting each other; cyan-magenta against neon green. Vaporous clouds and crowds procluded any hope of straight lines.

It was not smoke. It was instead vapor made to look very much like smoke. Dayglo and grey figures did not dance in a veritable mist of propylene glycol, water vapor, cannabinoids, nicotine, and so much more.

Nevertheless, the barrage of high tempo sonic pings did not cease.

There might have been furniture. Maybe the clientele lounged on hyper colored fog. There was probably a bar, but she never found it. Time did not exist in places like this.

Rather time waited in parked cars, leaning against dusty bricks, sitting on orange lit curbs. Everyone kept their backs to the door.

A mechanical whir reminded her she was smiling.

She'd been told she'd get used to it. Six years on and she still noticed above the song.

The package lay ten feet behind her on the undanced floor, thrumming under the fog.



oopsy doopsy poopsy

I am very late.
Like not just regular late:
extra stupid late...

Wednesday, March 23, 2016

aftermath

Half an hour before, his heart sang in victory. Joyous and righteous, violence had proved his troth. Still-quaking seats had cowered in gasping silence before the broken pollaxe in his fist. Tall and quiet the free warrior walked away. Only the crows cried for his victory.

Now, the warrior panted in exertion, dashing unbidden tears from filthy cheeks. It had taken ten terrible minutes to cut free from his ruined paldrons and cuirass. Then, ten minutes further to force a vambrace back onto his purple bulging arm.

He left behind a basin filled with rust-colored water and sanguine strips of filthy linen. His ruined armaments drug in a bundle behind him. The free warrior hobbled ahead, bent and ruined.

His only hopes? To find blacksmith ere nightfall who might set his broken bones, and mayhaps a belt or two of strong continental wine.

Friday, March 18, 2016

hope is terrible

a vacuum chamber pressed to the chest
oscillating outward in tenacious waves

only a matter of time until,
valve breaks, seal slips
what then are we left with?

bruises and swollen expectation

Thursday, March 17, 2016

precreation

Blank page waits, mirror
In void, demanding cursor
Must be thrust away

Wednesday, March 16, 2016

dead dreams to memory

A shaking dream like a simile, fell away
against daylight realities. Sober gray
strangled fuchsia energy; while
pragmatic concerns murdered serendipity.

Youthful chartreuse memories,
of excitation resplendent in early 90s’ green.

Sidewalks, asphault, and chalk assault,
Smoking dandelions, nunchaku hidden away.

Fistfights and small lives,
Impossible the bad guys.

Rude dogs
nostalgic and misunderstood,
Strip malls
with Arcades awaiting birthdays.

Cigarettes hid in air vents.
Softness choked away.

Tuesday, March 15, 2016

magic isn’t real

It was neither particularly hard nor particularly easy. In many ways it felt like shooting high proof hooch or snorting thorn-fire. There was pain, but it wasn’t very important.

The young wizard tensed for half a breath. In one smooth motion, the curved blade opened up his huge belly. Between fried egg puckering lips of slipping fat, the wizard withdrew his intestines. Pink-orange and bloody, they coiled wetly on the ground.

Two careful loops formed a clove hitch. He pulled it tighter about his neck.

Pain was beginning to win out against shock and laudanum. Hurriedly he hung his guts in a figure eight around the heavy cleat.

“Jump…” he whispered.

Monday, March 14, 2016

Birthed of need and devotion in the buzzing daylight, we were cast down. Our own rot surrounded us. The ground softened and swallowed us.

We broke out of our skins. Triumphant and certain, we pushed towards the light.

Some died upon stones. Some were entangled within our mother’s down-reaching limbs.

I alone broke free. I tasted sunlight for nearly a dozen days before it came.

Great whorling blades of bitter iron cut me back into the earth.

The gardener wished for radishes this year.


prose poem 25 | story of a tomato seed

Friday, March 11, 2016

pony noir | the whole bloody tale

[once again I've lightly edited and glued the whole thing together]

Hardy Sweets


[new stuff is in green text at the bottom]

Stony Twinkle



pony noir | part one: headaches and exposition

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.

---

pony noir | part two: violent trails

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.

---

pony noir | part three: fade to black

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 drowned under old wax and melting candles.

The barkeep pointedly looked away whenever somepony thrust some 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.

---

pony noir | part four: a better vantage point

Oh Celestia, the big galoot has always proved helpful, even when he doesn’t mean to be.

Name’s Stoney, Stoney Twinkle, and this is my story, I guess.

It started the way these things so often do, a worried mare walked into my office. It was an old yarn.

Her colt got caught up with a bad crowd, with all the typical trouble that brings. He hopped a train to the big bad city. She hadn’t heard head nor tail since. It should’ve been a simple trick to turn so I just let Hardy sleep it off.

Besides, I didn’t think the client could my rates and my bruiser’s too.

I started with the young punk’s shiftless associates. When dealing with vagrant young fellas, it helps to be pretty.

I’m still young enough to sparkle, wise enough to shine, as they say. Coat’s deep blue, and my mane’s a glossy black (at least up until recently). Big jet-black eyes don’t hurt the equation, it all adds up to an easy time with most stallions. For some reason, they never seem to notice the brain behind my wink.

Anyway, several winks later I got what I needed. The kid was into some bad stuff. Redrock’s nothing to sneeze at, but it was about to get weirder. It always does.

The kid hadn’t been quiet. He headed to Manehatten, somewheres dockside, to cut out the middle-pony and get his fix from the source.

That’s some damn dangerous shit to do. I needed to pull him out quick, but I also had some enemies in the area. I probably should’ve tracked down Hardy, but instead I colored my mane and rode the first train East.

I couldn’t quite put my hoof on it, but something about this was spooky. The kids seemed pale and shaky, even for molasses junkies. They were scared, too: almost too scared to care about my wink, almost.

---

So there I was, hid on the roof of some clapboard tenement, watching my partner and my missing pony get drug off into the night. They finally came for the kid; surprisingly things were shaping up nearly to plan.

Hold up, I jumped ahead again.

So anyways, I rolled into Manehatten and found the kid right off… seriously, as easy as that. He was the junkie buying up old books. Which was weird, a damned weird thing to be doing. Quirk his mom forgot to mention maybe?

I spoke to a few book dealers. Seems the kid was buying up the dream journals of some long dead unicorn named Neverhoof. The ol’ fella’s spell books were long gone, holed away in some Canterlot library. The journals were curios, traded by obscure historians.

The kid somehow kept bringing in the bits though he looked and smelled like a forgotten back alley. He had to be in deep with somepony wealthy, somepony dangerous, somepony going through a lot of trouble and redrock to not be seen buying these books.

It smelled like bad hoodoo, and I began to regret not charging a bigger retainer.

Trouble was, nopony can pull somepony else out of a situation like that. It never shakes that simple.

It could be that easy; that’s the annoying part. A short walk and a train ticket coulda got that kid home. I coulda collected my bits and suggested the reunited family move a ways South or West.

Not nothing’s ever gonna be that easy, though. Kid felt trapped so he was trapped. That’s that.

‘Course, a few days after I started tailing him, that situation got fairly literal.

---

I needed to act quick, but quiet. With a soft and less than feminine snort, I lit up the tiny horn hidden under my wavy mane.

Horn’s so small, most nobody knows I’m a unicorn. Don’t go flapping your fucking gums about it, okay?

Only ever learned one spell, and with that tiny horn, it hurt to lift a feather duster. So catching all four shoes as I trotted off the damn roof, stung like biting flies inside my skull. It hurt, but my Quiet Hooves spell worked.

I landed an inch above the ground without a sound. It was a bit like jumping onto an old hay mattress; nothing broke but my knees joined right in with the pain in my head. I galloped behind three beefy bastards hauling off my unconscious partner and my whimpering mark towards the docks. I hoped like hell they didn’t have a row-boat in mind.

If their boat wasn’t big enough to hide in my options got real short: let it go and walk away (wasn’t a real option), fight (I’d probably lose and might be left behind, maybe worse), or try to get myself captured (not ideal).

Two stallions had Hardy tossed across their back. Stallion’s got that special vulnerability, especially from behind. Quiet Hooves meant I’d get a free shot at both of ‘em. Then I either kick down the third fella (unlikely), or let him rough me up and turn into a hostage. Of course, he might just leave me bleeding to death in this muddy back lane.

I really, really hoped their boss-pony had sprung for a decent sized boat. At the very least, I could probably produce a few geldings before I went down.

Oh Celestia! I shoulda asked for a bigger retainer.

---

pony noir | part seven : thermodynamics

When I was a li’l philly, Science was my favorite subject. It all made sense, made me feel better. If you could do the math, if you could think it through, you could control it. It was yours. Who the hell needed magic? I had Celestia-be-damned science!

Almost became a research mare, actually. Until, I fell in with a… never you mind. That’s another story for another time, pony.

Anyway, what I was getting at:

The wind was teaching me a real hard damned lesson in thermodynamics. Heat exchange, ya know? See, everything wants to reach equilibrium. The fire and a cold kettle are trying to balance each other out, and in between it nets ya some tea.

Well I’m guessing the choppy waves was just a hair above freezing, the wind just as rough. There science was, trying reach an equilibrium between my warm body and the hard, cold open sea. All the while, the wind bit like a drunk bastard mule.

I was on a private yacht, freezing my flank. This told me a few things. The pony behind this scheme wasn’t very smart, and I shoulda dressed better.

I had the whoever-it-was dead to rights. The boat sure as manure wasn’t stolen so the owner of record for the E. S. Plentiful…

Assuming anypony believed the story of a two-bit detective from Foal Meadows with too many priors. All I had to do was survive the cold, the goons, whatever bad hoodoo was out there without getting arrested or stomped to death, and I was golden.

Sad to say, pretty sure I’ve been in tighter spots, but I musta been too drunk to remember.

---

pony noir | part eight : float away

It turned sour like a popping kumquat; the thought came too late. I played the safe bet, and unsurprisingly, I lost. Every steaming breath was one closer, one closer.

I should've charged the door ten minutes before, but I held out. Now I was warm, warm and tired. Hypothermia had me.

I suddenly remembered work yielded heat, but it was too late. My legs were rubber, and I was about drift away. My muscles weren't mine any more. Took a tumble with the frigid air and lost it all.

That same damn thought was trying to force its way through, but I wasn't really there anymore.

"Work equals heat."
"All work produces heat.'
"All work..."

I was too loopy to feel the deck beneath me when I drifted away.

Cut to black, everypony.

---

pony noir | part nine : narration 

So how come Hardy gets a narrator, and Stony tells her own tale?

We’ll isn’t nopony that was gonna tell Stony’s story but her, and Hardy wouldn’t believe he had a story to tell anyways. Point being, you’re saddled with me again, everypony.

Hardy awoke to the smell of blood, buckets of the stuff. Not everypony knows that smell, but the old bruiser sure as Celestia knew it. Rough mooring ropes cinched tight against all four of his legs.

After a few reckless minutes, the stallion figured out his bones would break before the line. He quit fighting and suffered through some thinking.

First he noted the kid wasn’t with him.

Then a seasick stomach and rough dip aft (maybe fore) clued him he was on a boat.

Moonlight filtering through a the open top half of a door, along with the fact he wasn’t too thirsty, and didn’t seem to have pissed himself, told him it was probably the same night.

There was something wrong with the stink of all that blood. Hardy decided it couldn’t’ve come from the kid. (Hardy’s always been a bit secretly optimistic.)

Then the bottom door flung open revealing the ghostly outline of Two-teeth. The kid quickly slipped in a puddle of blood, crashing into Hardy. From there it turned into a gory slap-stick number until the big stallion finally got untied.

“It killed them all! We’ve got to run!”

“Woah, there pony-boy, can’t run in the water.”

“We, we crashed into a dock…”

----  

pony noir | part ten: a sudden storm

It wasn’t a long jump, even on old bones. Hardy took it in stride, but the colt was fucking folly incarnate.

Lightning struck.

Kid slipped, fell short, and cracked his skull before taking a cold dip in the angry ocean. Only by a miracle succession of lightning strikes did Hardy manage to pull the pale pony out from a wine-dark sea. Nearly lost a tooth for his trouble.

Still, damn kid had a swollen mound of trouble just above his eyes, lacerated and weeping blood too. With a tired snort and a bit of effort the stallion got Two-teeth onto his back before galloping away.

The sullen glow of fire-light burned steamed in the sudden rain on his right so Hardy booked it headlong and half blind to his left. Lightning and luck conspired to hide the ravine until the two of ‘em were tumbling headlong into the muddy bottom.

As he fought to regain his breath, a deep red unicorn appeared in a fiery flash.

“Horseshit…” Hardy managed to cough out before spinning ‘round to kick the smirk off her mouth.

---

pony noir | part eleven: a bit more pain

Hardy felt a satisfying snap beneath his bucking hooves. Spinning around, he lost this vicious grin. The kid hung mid-air between Hardy and the Unicorn. Two bruising hoofprints stood out on top of the kid’s now shattered ribs. It even looked like Two-teeth had a shard of skull pushing out from top of his head.

Before Hardy could comprehend, Two-teeth and the red unicorn disappeared with an echoing laugh into a sheet of flame. Somewhere off to the right, a bonfire flared high into the sky.

The old brute managed to pull himself out from the ravine. Had it been anypony else, he would have taken a breather and tried to think, but it was Hardy. He charged towards the fire with every ounce of speed and rage he could summon. 

--- 

The kid sat dazed on the precipice of a burning pit. A white spine of bloody bone protruding above closed eyes. The unicorn stood close, foreleg around Two-teeth’s shaking shoulders. Her eyelids hung low above a wicked grin.

Hardy barreled ahead. His lavender mane shone in a flurry of lightning strikes. He couldn’t hear the thunder of his own hooves above the thunder in the sky. He surprised even himself as he leapt smoothly across the ruddy pit.

In a blink, something black and green blasted against Hardy’s flank. His momentum shifted, sending him careening into the pit’s sandy edge. His great hooves dug desperate furrows into the ground even as his tail caught alight. The kid’s glowing green eyes and wicked smile cut through Hardy like a knife made of bile.

“Your almost back to us, love,” purred the red unicorn.

“Just one, last thing, darling,” a voice like honey on sandpaper announced through the kid’s awkward teeth.

Hardy fell. His eyes shut firmly against the overwhelming heat. All the air smashed out of his lungs, and he resigned himself to die. More than anything his heart sunk for the damned kid.

---

Drawing cold, wet air into his lungs, Hardy looked up in time to see the screaming kid dissolve into a puddle of blood and shadows.

Nearby, Stony tangled gamely with a distraught red Unicorn. The frenzy did the red mare no favors. Stony ducked, jumped, bobbed, and weaved while Red built into a wild crescendo. 
Finally, Red backed Stony up against the burning pit. Red charged. Stony dropped supine and kicked like a mule. That was that. Red arched gracelessly into the flames.

Hardy stood with a grimace and a streak of muttered curses.

“You owe me on this one, Stony.”

She looked across the flames before tilting her head towards the puddle that’d been Two-teeth.

“I’ll be the one to tell his ma.”

“We’re square,” he agreed with a sigh.

--- 

A few hours later, Celestia raised the sun. Hardy and Stony rowed rapidly away from the burning remains of Councilpony Sanguine Dreams’ yacht,.

“Her father was an historian so I’m guessing that’s the connection to Neverhoof.”

“That still doesn’t make no sense, Stony.”

“Magic. I guess, is the rest of the story,” Stony shrugged.

She looked worse for wear than the big guy so he let it go. The two of ‘em gingerly rowed generally west. They hoped to hit the coast by nightfall and be back to Foal Meadows by the next morning.

Stony snorted. There was no way she’d be charging the kid’s mom anything else. Bad news never pays the bills. It had been one of the hardest gigs she’d ever worked, especially to lose ten bits on it.

She should’ve asked for a bigger retainer. 


Thursday, March 10, 2016

fuck you, brain!

why attempt caution
why try to fight the vast entropic flow
sluicing through ambitious dreams
& calm calculated streams,
with equal ease
whole broken- bringing pieces float by in
cruel eddies of memory
the wise man leaves not room for fate?
the wise man knows fate is beyond him,
life is short whether one year or a hundred?
death dances so freely, its movements mark my jealousy
seeking not an end but freedom, finding neither,
is it just another word for death?
could Mark be correct?

Wednesday, March 9, 2016

the narrator talks to himself

can't I be soft?
no, at best velvet wrapped ‘round cast iron
hard, brittle, and pocked in rust.
perhaps a perky animal print,
but that is it, OR
some pony decoupage,
but not both.

How could you possibly be soft?
When have you had that sort of strength?
When could you admit to yourself
you just might be weak?

an amalgam, mercuric in composition
but hard pressed powder in practice

you shake too much on quiet nights
to let anyone in, much less open up
to the sunshine and sordid shit
of salt-in-wounds human touch

strength smiles and whispers
you throw fists and sit silent

grass grows and blows
away from the wind

stones weigh, sometimes weep,
sometimes crack against
probable cleavage

trees whisper in the wind
trees are not afraid to bloom
trees, above all, will bend

you are a flapping chain snapping links
you are a cage who pretends a beast

a hollow echo of laughing gods

Tuesday, March 8, 2016

not feeling it today

farts fartish farting
frap a frap a frap, butt puffs
sing anal greeting

Monday, March 7, 2016

3 worlds in 3 sentences


The Iron Land – Through rivers of rust, across cast iron glades, automatons war over life-giving coal.

The Prismatic Expanse – In a land of glass grass and rainbow skies, sentient tinkling sounds whisper wizardly silicate secrets in exchange for dangerous flame.

Mirroring Halls – Within this cyclopean labyrinth of many mirrors, each reflection is alive, and hates its fellows

Friday, March 4, 2016

a literary analysis of an untitled haiku by Gayle Eidschun

Corridor. A word
Would echo beautifully down
its very namesake.

At first glance this untitled haiku, despite its brevity, appeared to be something of an infinite reduction of cleverness. Its structure reinforced the “[echoing]” punchline of the poem, reminiscent of especially adroit New Yorker cartoon strips. However, upon deeper examination, certain semiotic themes came into light.

Traditionally the metrical features are not much of a consideration due to the structure of a Haiku. Nevertheless, the prosody of the first two lines matches extraordinarily well with the subject at hand.

The poem opened with a dactyl, fully stopped with firm punctuation. After such a forceful first impression, it then slides sonorously across a pyrrhic foot. Thereafter a mirror image of the dactyl greets the reader in the form an anapest. A nearly literal sonic “echo” was to be had, further bolstered by the alliterative Cs. Speaking of alliteration, the two Ws from “word” and “[w]ould” beautifully tie together the first two lines and give that pyrrhic foot more poetic impact than otherwise indicated. Next a pair of trochees finish out the second line before, finally, an irregular array of spondees destroys meter altogether. It finishes as the purely syllabic verse one would expect in a haiku.

So, the central theme of the poem could be considered the very idea of echoing, reiterated by the echoing meter. It’s about a word echoing well down itself; all very clever but devoid of much meaning.

Yet, something still catches in the mind about this piece, a short glimpse of a deeper issue. A word echoed down itself. It became a subtle reminder of the difference between a word and an object, between a physical space, a literal sound, a symbol, and an idea.

With some thought beyond first impressions, Ms. Eidschun’s haiku sounded as an exemplar of the slipping nature of words.

Thursday, March 3, 2016

“the omnicorn”

 from Ferdinand’s Folk Verses

Where does the Omnicorn live?
Perchance, could you show me the place?
How many stung dead and trampled?
Did you look dreadnaught in the face?

How many tribes have toppled?
How many kingdoms cut down?
How many parents were crippled?
How many societies drown’d?

The mad horse wracks wild with questions,
Demands answers and blood in return.
Dead slave. Dead master. Wrecked vestments.
Horned crown of Freedom blood-burn’d.

How free in the sky, A bird is?
Chained to wing, flying free is
No better than the rule of
a feath’ry crown?




Also, there is a really kick ass picture of the Omnicorn NOT drawn by me!
(psst, it's drawn by +Matthew Adams !)

ALSO
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I have 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 (this is one of my only sources of income now).


Thanks,
Edward

Wednesday, March 2, 2016

showerthoughts

honesty is more important than happiness... goddamnit I've gotta quit eating like that... I'm like a malfunctioning machine... I don't know... Is it important? yes. It has to be.... fuck it's too late... goddamned hip... fuck... I hate this... I'm always so tired... so tired of being in pain or really fucking high all the time... fucking geriatric problems... prob'ly get fucking gout anytime now... I don't have the time; we've gotta be gone so soon... but my back... goddamnit... goddamnit fuck... [heart begins to explode in quick succession]... goddamnit! [water flows for several minutes, back relaxes, bloodpressure continues to climb] fuck [water shut off]

Tuesday, March 1, 2016

turning

A simple twist, really, was all it took.

Anxiety and fear are not so far from anger, you know?

He bent and turned fluttering pain in his chest, cold twisting in his guts, into anger. Without even realizing, well-learned guilt pierced the dying breast of anxiety inside him. Anger bled into rage.

Rage is, of course, not far removed from fire.

And so the stranger carbonized and screamed with ashen breath.

Monday, February 29, 2016

spectator

Babbling babbling in a dizzying array of inchoate sound, he did not understand. Everyone spun, a mystery of covalent dance. His relative stillness stood out like a black thumb, swollen, distorted, malfunctioning.

Navigation consisted of ruthless lines and hard angles. Swirling crowds effortlessly parted before him, objects overlapping in path but impossible in collision.

Their gravity would not touch him; only his dying self-impetus drove him. A stranger in a sea of familiars, the spectator saw but could never know.

Did he come from the future? Was he meant for clean, modern, parallel lines?                                 

Was he rather, a vestigial remnant of imperatives long past? A straight line to lonely slaughter and warm blood and red meat?

Friday, February 26, 2016

ambivalence

racing upwards in
a small orb atop rockets,
series explosive

huge pieces collapse
quick away in succession,
leaving just the orb.

long-solved mathematics
steer;  the man inside must wait.
for machine rulings...

when the machines make
for a soft-perfect landing
the man inside wakes

computer dressed, he,
walking through an aperture,
becomes a hero.

Thursday, February 25, 2016

bleeding scars

White star, red flash grips,
Inlayed in chartreuse expense.
Sudden persistent burning
Pernicious insistence
Of sharpening penance,
For crimes against oneself.
Far old follies still fouling health
(and wealth [and happiness])

Wednesday, February 24, 2016

prose poem 24 | of sand and men

With each step, he loses a piece of himself. Every forward motion against the ragged winds of entropy, comes at a cost.

Ephemeral moments perpetually transcribe into imperfect memories. Memories, as always, remain unimmune to thermodynamics.

A wet failing machine is he; wet failing machines are we.

Sand grains fall irregularly… but on average speak honestly of time. What of irregular men?


Tuesday, February 23, 2016

“like a rock, like a planet, like a fucking atom bomb”

unaffected, attempted and failed,
remote, self-contained, “a naked eye”
quoth an interesting sentiment,
I detested and lived.
swirling such a stagnant morass and maelstrom,
unintuiting, twisting counter clockwise,
towards receding rock bottom,
I watched the world without effect.
numbed or synthetically, desperately grinning||
I pretended toward disaffection or honest joy,
and found neither, nor any succor.

Authenticity high above happiness.
Could I survive with less of either?
Simplicity may content me, but
can magnanimity degauss duplicity?

(Does my poetry pale towards an exposition
of erudition and archaic displays of diction?)

I fear apace each smiling face,
at least now I may stare my malady en eyen!
For sooth? By my troth? Mayhaps?




----

I feel like perhaps today's poem was a touch self indulgent so here is an example of a better poem.


Obviously I don't pretend to hold copyright to "Generator" by Bad Religion


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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 (this is one of my only sources of income now).


Thanks,
Edward