Friday, January 29, 2016

spiritual hangover

scintillating trickling falls
dreams of hybrid days
broken one by one by one
beneath superfluous weight

days half honest, half a lie
pulpit mornings, whiskey nights

Soon,

cast away, moor-less, rocking free
drowning, shouting, laughing sea

float, float, float?
Nay.

sink below and close
red eyes one final time,
seek such soft repose,

Next,

half-witted, waking, honest
singed by sun betides,
such broken wakeful measures
such stumbling, infant strides

dissolved away in whiskey,
pressed free like foaming wine,
fermented so very cellary,
with long forgotten time

the past presents no present,
looming wall of ocean rime,
once mutable now fixéd,
these memories of crime

what way, what with, what burden,
what day, what hour, what sign?
will whisk one free from whimsy,
and through black gates resign?

I shift and shit and sacrifice,
bearing burdens of that ocean ice,
I’ll break free, or die in deed,
(someday soon, we shall see).
I am done with cautionary ‘vice.






----

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

Thursday, January 28, 2016

imagine

Imagine a world of infinite geology, a haphazard study in karsts, spiring peaks, vast spanning deserts, young seas filled with odd red life. It spreads on forever, stunningly diverse in all aspects save starkness.

It is alien, but only after the fashion of those times and places of our own world which remain alien to us.

Within these unending austere landscapes, wander myriad tribes of hominids. Not quite human, something less, perhaps something more.

Their world slowly fills with literal bile. Acrid and brilliant green, it consumes, breaks down, and winnows away. 

This is not a metaphor. What do you do?

Wednesday, January 27, 2016

pony noir | part nine : narration

[part 1 : part 2 : part 3 : part 4 : part 5 : part 6 : part 7 : part 8]


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…”


Tuesday, January 26, 2016

as many six word stories as I felt like writing

wrappers under couch cushions, sticky fingers

grease-stains, burnt hands, grin, it runs

puffing sweaty teenage fun, no cops

ambulance, last chance, kindness can kill

altar, hands clasped, unanswered impotent rage

joy - tears - hope - bile - fond memory

Trackless green, running leap, bones in the riverbed.

(I cheated on the last one. I regret nothing.)

Monday, January 25, 2016

what happened

So, I guess I left a bit of a cliff hanger last time. I was in a full blown panic attack and riding out 20 milligrams of morphine and 4 mg of ativan.

At only half that dose of both medications I was still hitting a 10 on the pain scale. What started out as severe groin pain, turned into debilitating and agonizing spasms in my legs and ass. Shooting waves of torment travelled from my soles to my shoulders. Two plus hours of this...

So I was properly fucked up and freaking the hell out when I saw suicide ideation as a side-effect of ativan. This resulted in my desperate disclosure of suicidal intrusive thoughts.

My concern was really about the fact that I was so opiated and loose, I might respond violently with too little provocation. Yet, I couldn't bring myself to explain that.

Point being, I did imagine offing myself, but it was not particularly likely.

So we got a room with money we don't really have for a couple of nights , and I only really felt myself yesterday afternoon.

Now, we're back to hobo mode and I am ridiculously sore.

Dr. Appt. Tomorrow.

No idea what the fuck caused this.

Friday, January 22, 2016

fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

Fucking hell, the hospital, again, Telling strangers about my disorders again. Being ill believed by brusque male medical folks. Seizing and spasmin, however, that's a fun new discovery of relentless, alarming pain. 
Then, of course, last night, my social anxiety disorder causes a panic attack, dropped me into depression and anxiety riddled intrusive suicidal thoughts. yay

Panic attacks ride the debilitating spasms like angry swarms.
Broke on through to a full on 10 on the pain scale, (my personal rubric for that is to remember remember strapped to a backboard with two pelvic fractures). Still getting there after the first dose of morphine, in fact.
Two shots of morphine, phenigran, and some adavan have me near to functional but far from pain free.
Suicide obeservational services will make this the most expensive room we've let in a long.
But I took some ragged notes so a sad poem or horrifying story may come from all this...

I am not well.

Thursday, January 21, 2016

knight yellow

He thought himself weak for he could not understand. He had only his own perspective. You should forgive him.

Someone ought to do so; he never forgave himself.

Knight Yellow knew only the actions of others; he saw nothing of their motivation and had no skill for hazarding others' emotions.

Each of his dozen peers were brazen, bold, and quick to speech. Knight Yellow stammered (when he was not altogether silent).

Instead, he watched. He weighed all things in the firm scales of his cautious mind.

However, human touch burned him like fire. Long speech choked him as ash.

Still, Knight Yellow, performed the necessary tasks.

He stood before terrifying throngs at every tournament. Eyes cut deeper than tourney swords. So many voices, a volley of sonic stones. Still, he endured.

He fought at every feast, through the forced intimacy of squiredom, and in all other things outside of his own quiet chambers. The Knight Yellow warred with fear in constancy, and won.

But all he knew was his friends were far more terrifying than war, an embrace might drive him to tears.

When the war found the rainbow kingdom, Knight Yellow, to the surprise of all, was the first to charge and the last to surrender. 

Wednesday, January 20, 2016

unmet

unmet needs, a dead conflagration
render all flavors to ash
broken seems, each smile
a moment, a memory passed

distant draining the pain unseen
of heroic quests of simple living,
all joys dwindled hard and mean.

beauty becomes disillusion
breaking and rending and slid
far past even the vibrance of dread




Tuesday, January 19, 2016

small changes

Wet, soft drip, drip, drip
Unceasing, gradual comes
Uprooting of trees.

Monday, January 18, 2016

Monday, January 11, 2016

bullshit late excuse

Okay, I'm taking
one week working vacation
to write other things...

SO you may or may not be excited to learn of a few new developments...

I finally got an actual copy of my book. There is an error on the back cover, but I am just gonna pretend its an in situ error from the excited ramblings of Mr. Maypole. If you haven't bought my book, you should.

It's on sale until I notice I have sold two more. Please don't make this an embarrassingly long sale [clickable].

I have become absorbed into My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic that I now have pony books. I also have a patch of Twilight Sparkle's cutie mark on my purse (opposite an old Atom and His Package patch). I have also given thought to what my pony name would be... Tragic Tail. My cutie mark is of course a green feathered quill coming out of a skull's eye socket. So that's where I am at there.

Anyway, this week I am working on 2 novellas. One set in Red Light Heavy the other in the Drowned World. Probably will be the next thing I publish, likely both in a single volume.

These will be part polished blog stuff and part brand new

Also finalizing a new RPG module/adventure/sadness-thing. There is poop in it!

So yeah... 

Saturday, January 9, 2016

apotheosis of loam

Like the dying rays of a sickly setting sun, she sank into the earth. Numb fungal chthonic awareness merged imperfectly with her own. Daisy Petal died but stubbornly refused to cease.

Everything she had been spread out into the haphazard fungal mats, deep forest loam, and clay choked algal river banks. Slowly, haphazardly, in the cold dark maze of her new awareness, she crept into an aspen root. A million eyes, in symbol, became her own, in living metaphor. Each branch of the entire glen born of the selfsame tree.

It took her ages to understand, that separation of asexual being and the profound community of aspen glades. The whole of the wood was her's by the time she began to comprehend.

She was something more and something less than herself by the time she emerged.

Thursday, January 7, 2016

another poem about the pacific ocean

the mist tricks, fine ocean spray,
light slips into wide white space.

blurring horizons hide the limits of sight.

in the sand:

carbonized black, never shined such obsidian,
a remnant of fire, polished polished jet iridescent,

seafoam patinaed purple and green,
right half of a rainbow,
to pair with mother of pearl.

polymers parade, broken and gleaming in falling light seeming,
against rough round soft sands, beside broken sand-dollars,
shining as opalescent squares,

that red stone, those iron bands, precipitate,
just like the desert stones, so far away,
elegant whorls against sharp arcs broken and eroded,

the sand and wind and waves conspire to rend
the red-yellow stones into silicate separation,
back from whence they came

the seagulls flee
my pockets were full of emptied oysters
and half considered ideas

from a driftwood perch I witnessed
my son running into the wet,
he laughed as waves lapped above his plastic boots,
he cast a handful of sand back into the sea

I laughed alive and momently free.

Wednesday, January 6, 2016

sharkman in his or her own words

In reference to THIS.

(written using only 10 words)



“down, down big water
not food, blood bite blood
up, up light, pain light, not water
bite food, bite not food
bite, blood, bite, blood, light, food
food?”

Tuesday, January 5, 2016

Monday, January 4, 2016

an old swordsman awakens

Morning came with its typical insistence. Begrudgingly, the old warrior awoke and remembered twelve score of pains both new and long held. He stretched blindly against the forceful sun and spat out his distaste for night’s miasmas.

Sharp pain twisted in his guts and sent him curling into the dewy earth. What had he done?

Vomit and blood surrounded him, sharp stink and charnel cling. Who were these dead men about him? How came his ribs to be broken again?

Where was he? Why was he here?

Who was he?          

Firm but gentle hands took him by the forearms and sat him delicately on his numb feet. The sunshine grew more insistent.

“It is time?” he asked.

“…” she or perhaps a small boy said something he could not understand.

The sunlight stretched to encompass his very being, all horizons.

Until, of course, a black dot took its center. Empty black began to spread.

“I love you,” whispered the voice.

The old warrior smiled and fell into nothing.

Friday, January 1, 2016

hangovers

As someone who was very alcohol dependent for quite a long time, I've had a great deal of experience dealing with hangovers.

Helpful tips and tonics:

  • Things you need: hydration, analgesics, caffeine, food.
  • Tonic 1 : drop two alka-seltzer cold tabs into a a cup of the hottest blackest coffee you can stand. Quaff quickly. You do not want to linger on the flavor of this. Especially effective if you smoke and drink.
  • Tonic 2 : got nothing going on? Tell your liver to go fuck itself and make a bloody-beer or (and this is actually delicious) pour equal parts orange juice to porter/stout in a big ass glass. Alternatively if the smell doesn't make ya puke, drink some more of that whiskey you just coyote uglied.
  • The Terrible Method! Before I get into this, I want to warn you, this works but is every bit as unpleasant as it seems. I learnt it from Robert Heinlein. Drink a glass of water, take some ibuprofen, and slam a cup of coffee or an energy drink (b vitamins help, too). Step into a nice hot shower. Let it lull you for a long moment. Switch that bitch to frigid! Stand there. Take it. Regret every shaking part of your being. Switch it back to the hottest setting. HATE everything. Live with your terrible decisions! Repeat the cycle at least twice more, but no more than 4 times total (not that anybody ever would). If all goes as planned, your body should be numbed and in shock long enough for your other hangover resolving reagents to enact a more permanent solution.