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Recommended Posts

The mask on the wall fixed its gaze on me. The creeping anxiety that had been with me since I'd come in the door started to amble a bit faster. She was going to say no. That was pretty obvious, pretty apparent to anyone. She was always going to say no. The look she had given me had been just as empty of emotion as the distorted human face that now stared down at me from the wall.


Her eyes expressed something between frustration and disappointment. Far from a glare, but just as disabling. I'll live the rest of my life not knowing how else I was expected to act, what else I was supposed to do. If life is a long hallway, my theme song is the echoing sound of slamming doors. One after another, opens up with the promise of a new path to take, and just as suddenly closes with thunderous finality. Another opportunity missed. Another chance lost. Another lonely night.




I don't deal in poetry. sh*t's already been done. The act of writing a poem is, anymore, the act of squeezing the last bit out of a group of words hoping for a taste of something significant and ending up dry. It's been said that an infinite number of monkeys on typewriters could write Shakespeare. But we haven't had to get half way there to exhaust our meager supply of enlightenment.


Maybe it'd be better if we were monkeys. Then we might be able to marvel in a broken string of mashed characters. Instead we know what we like, and we've seen it all before. Poetry has become a revolving door of stale emotions in constant loop. Sometimes the wad of gum just behind the handle is still juicy, but the glass is still dirty from last week. That's part of the problem, you see? Society just got too god damned big and we were all a bunch of god damned monkeys typing out our feelings. Now what do we feel? Nothing. Too many people expressing too many thoughts and emotions, and now none of them mean a damned thing. We're just as distant as ever from one another, Babel has fallen again. We can't relate, the guy across the bar isn't a human with thoughts and feelings, and a story to tell. He's a fat odious f*ck who can't help but ruin your day just by being there. "What'd you think of the game?" he asks, again making an empty effort at conversation. The hell do I care where and when lil' Johnny scored a great touchdown? Do you know how many "great touchdowns" there have already been? How many more there will inevitably be? Did someone die on the field? That would at least be somewhat of a novelty. But no. I'm expected to get excited by the same god damned sh*t that happened last week happening all over again. Makes you wonder where the hell we went wrong, you know? Our grandfathers pictured us in flying cars. f*cking flying cars. My muffler barely stays attached and the check engine light has been on for over two years now. If my car could fly I'd name it Icarus. Yeah you're already smirking, you grim f*cking asshole. We all know the story of Icarus. The boy whose daddy wanted to see him soar among the clouds. Well Daedalus you f*cked up. Your boy's dead. Hell, maybe if anyone survives the sh*t we call modernity they'll think it clever to call it The Age of Icarus. Yeah that'd be great. History would remember us as the jackasses who died trying to be great. I guess it could be worse. We could be like the poor son of a bitch living back in the stone age, you know, trying to survive when it was actually hard. When he couldn't just waddle down to McGreasetown USA and order a triple-double-heart attack with extra grease. No that poor son of a bitch had to fight to stay alive. And you know how he's remembered now? With a big smug grin on the face of pieces of sh*t like you who've forgotten how to be anything but an all-knowing cynical sh*t stain. You and your generation? f*cking eulogized as a modern day Icarus. The guy fighting off saber tooth cats and sh*t? A historical footnote.


f*ckING A. I'm out.




On the shelf sat several books along with a statute of a howling wolf. Amnesia, in its zippered case next to its similarly bound sister book caught my eye. I briefly skimmed the contents. A chapter called "Photographs" looked promising. I read along for a bit on how the overall theme of the book, cultural memory loss, could be expressed and was actually represented in the deterioration of film.


An errant speck flittered across my eye, as I turned to follow it I saw the window in the corner. The room shook, the air around the window seemed to visibly churn and gnash at me. I awoke on the floor with a cold burning in the back of my head. The lights were out, broken glass and odds and ends littered the floor. The bookshelf was gone. I ran out of the room.




Rown :rampage:


Edited by Rown
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  • 1 month later...

I have rage like a sea. Humid, stifling waves wash over me. Red waters boil over again and again, the steam searing my skin and nerves. All things afloat in the sea cause me indescribable pain, and I hate them for it. Things hover in the sky, circling, watching me. Mocking how I cannot swim, waiting for me to be submerged and drown so that they might feat upon me. I hate them too. A wave rises now, towers above me, hissing and steaming as it builds. The froth of it is already on my lips. I raise my arms against the wave, bent on striking the first blow. My fists crash into the wave, and it collapses atop me, a thunderous noise and force pummel my entire body. My muscles ache, my skin tingles. A subtle hum fade from my ears. I look at my hands. They are red. She’s lying on the floor. She-?


What have I done.


His arm comes back, and swings forward in a perfect arc. The ball flies and meets the smooth floor, careening towards ten hapless pins. They fall together. A strike. He walks back to our acclaim and admiration. The pins are reset. I walk up and take my time choosing the right ball. I find one that feels light. My arm goes back, and swings forward. The ball lands in the lane, goes a ways and veers into the gutter. I wait for the ball to come back. I swing my arm again. The ball stays on course this time and takes down six of my inanimate foes. I turn back. My friends are talking amongst themselves. I sit down. Take my beer, and notice it's gone again. Not the beer. By sight I can tell that I am in fact holding a bottle of Miller High Life. But the sensation is gone. I can't feel it in my hand. I set the bottle back down and stare at my hand. I turn it, bring it closer to my face then away. I can see it. But it's like I'm watching it on a screen, watching someone else move their hand. I cannot comprehend that it's me. Only one of my friends has picked up on my behavior. He asks if I'm alright. I say "Yeah".



Rown :rampage:


Edited by Rown
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