(no subject)
Crap, I really hadn't realized how much is going on on LJ these days - lots of fic being posted, from both bigbangs and individuals.
I don't have spare fic lying around, but I do have a dawning love for the podfic series Welcome to Nightvale and some terrifically shitty poetry. I don't actually call this poetry, it's just the mental equivilant of belly button lint.
I'm become the kid who shows people their belly button lint. Well. There are worse fates. Like going to lunch with my ex tomorrow. Urg.
1.
Cannot deal with you two, either
I have to be up in the morning
everybody just leave
you are making me feel feelings
RICHARD SIKEN I SEE YOU THERE
gonna end up reading poetry until
the asscrack of dawn again
2.
Oh my
this one is all dark brothers
and soft curves on sharp
smiles;
you know what this is.
3.
Wolf bites, said a woman a
fashionable woman in a large
booksellers with a starbucks
in place in case the books were
too much for anyone. She
actually said Did she take the
bite? to a man in khaki who
made no other impression
except that he responded with
Yeah she took the bike. because
this story was never going to
be about werewolves it’s just
that parts of me are still preteen
and still that particular shade of
pink-and-purple delusional
a pee-gee thirteen rave cave
which we were all warned is the
womb of werewolves.
4.
Things that feel like suffocating:
outer space, hometowns, and
Allan Ginsberg’s early poetry.
5.
The only real pillow is a book and a light still on
this anthology under my mouth smells of baby powder. I’m
tainting it with smears of lip balm. I am soiling it like a
maiden cleaned and clothed in that wrapping paper that
rich parents purchase in a disgusting display of smugness
every Christmas for the elementary school fundraiser. She’s
wrapped in that, thinks she’s safe because it’s heavy duty,
bought by bumpkins who think double ply quilted toilet
paper is a right and not a privilege (like that sign your child
reads every day on the schoolbus in that vibrating miserable
seat, and who, Mr. Vendetta, should be afraid of their
people?) The wrapping paper is gold with a glossy finish and
subtle diamond design, wholesome white on the opposite
side, and she is clothed in both, done up in perfect origami,
best in the class, nary a wrinkle on her, not really
anyway.
And I tear her down as I pass her in the street; her clothes
are paper to me. I soil her like I’d drool on a book as I
sleep. I was never the best in the class at anything
money-making so I killed time by grabbing it by the front
of its hoodie and slamming Time into the whiteboard
until Time’s face was a bloody mess and then I threw
a chair and dreamed of cold air outside the classroom,
stroking the dead leaves in the hallway in the palm of
its hand, stroking and stroking with its thumbs until the
leaves tremble and cry out and pant and are sated.
After Time left a bloody face on the whiteboard I whiled
away the nothing by catching glimpses of the panties
presented by the maidens in the desk row opposite mine.
Only none of these people are maidens, not even the
maiden I told you was in the December fundraiser
wrapping paper. I put her in pretty paper because I am
as bad as the rest of them.
Those are not maidens. All my friends know I dog-ear
pages. Maidens are for somebody. What violence would
I wreak with a woman?
I don't have spare fic lying around, but I do have a dawning love for the podfic series Welcome to Nightvale and some terrifically shitty poetry. I don't actually call this poetry, it's just the mental equivilant of belly button lint.
I'm become the kid who shows people their belly button lint. Well. There are worse fates. Like going to lunch with my ex tomorrow. Urg.
1.
Cannot deal with you two, either
I have to be up in the morning
everybody just leave
you are making me feel feelings
RICHARD SIKEN I SEE YOU THERE
gonna end up reading poetry until
the asscrack of dawn again
2.
Oh my
this one is all dark brothers
and soft curves on sharp
smiles;
you know what this is.
3.
Wolf bites, said a woman a
fashionable woman in a large
booksellers with a starbucks
in place in case the books were
too much for anyone. She
actually said Did she take the
bite? to a man in khaki who
made no other impression
except that he responded with
Yeah she took the bike. because
this story was never going to
be about werewolves it’s just
that parts of me are still preteen
and still that particular shade of
pink-and-purple delusional
a pee-gee thirteen rave cave
which we were all warned is the
womb of werewolves.
4.
Things that feel like suffocating:
outer space, hometowns, and
Allan Ginsberg’s early poetry.
5.
The only real pillow is a book and a light still on
this anthology under my mouth smells of baby powder. I’m
tainting it with smears of lip balm. I am soiling it like a
maiden cleaned and clothed in that wrapping paper that
rich parents purchase in a disgusting display of smugness
every Christmas for the elementary school fundraiser. She’s
wrapped in that, thinks she’s safe because it’s heavy duty,
bought by bumpkins who think double ply quilted toilet
paper is a right and not a privilege (like that sign your child
reads every day on the schoolbus in that vibrating miserable
seat, and who, Mr. Vendetta, should be afraid of their
people?) The wrapping paper is gold with a glossy finish and
subtle diamond design, wholesome white on the opposite
side, and she is clothed in both, done up in perfect origami,
best in the class, nary a wrinkle on her, not really
anyway.
And I tear her down as I pass her in the street; her clothes
are paper to me. I soil her like I’d drool on a book as I
sleep. I was never the best in the class at anything
money-making so I killed time by grabbing it by the front
of its hoodie and slamming Time into the whiteboard
until Time’s face was a bloody mess and then I threw
a chair and dreamed of cold air outside the classroom,
stroking the dead leaves in the hallway in the palm of
its hand, stroking and stroking with its thumbs until the
leaves tremble and cry out and pant and are sated.
After Time left a bloody face on the whiteboard I whiled
away the nothing by catching glimpses of the panties
presented by the maidens in the desk row opposite mine.
Only none of these people are maidens, not even the
maiden I told you was in the December fundraiser
wrapping paper. I put her in pretty paper because I am
as bad as the rest of them.
Those are not maidens. All my friends know I dog-ear
pages. Maidens are for somebody. What violence would
I wreak with a woman?