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.