typified

His hands appeared on the screen, hundreds of times larger than they actually were, writhing around with a pen, scrawling surprisingly beautiful letters that were horribly spaced and twisted, every taut muscle visible as it twitched to form the answers to everyone’s questions, each individual hair and pore and scar and wrinkle visible to our naked eyes, intently watching this giant hand, waiting.

She walked down the street, at a moderate pace at first, but, gradually, she started walking very fast. She passed other pedestrians, who looked at her and wondered for a few spright seconds why it was she was walking so fast. Maybe she was late, some thought, although mostly they pondered briefly about what exactly must be wrong with her. Continuing on, she turned a corner into a long, low-lit alley between two tall brick buildings, dark as it was in the shadow of the lowering sun, walking just as fast as she had been. Her footsteps echoed louder and louder in the dank corridor, buffeting her ears, prodding her to walk even faster into the growing darkness, as strange dancing shadows frolicing upon the walls mocked her egress, spurring her even more. And finally, she emerged out of the stone corridor, into the warmth of the setting sun, slowing her pace slightly as her mind cleared. She walked briskly down sidewalks and across grass lawns, until she came to the tall, grey building in which she lived, an industrial mausoleum, a monolith of postmodern architectural design. She passed through the large metal doors of the entrance as they locked behind her, walking through the artificially lit halls, labyrinthian to those who did not reside within, finding her specifically numbered door, entering her small cell of a room, crouching down in a corner, and holding herself, silent and forever.

“Jesus John, what the hell did you think would happen? Did you think it would all just get better all of the sudden? You’re a fuckin’ shithead, you know. You put me through all of this and you expect me to do more? I don’t give a fuck if you work sixty hours a week, I have my own fucking work to do. Do you think I care if you pay the rent? I do all of the goddamned work around here. You can’t make me leave, you need me. You just use your money to control me, keep me here. If I leave, ████ goes with me. You are going to pay for him, and you sure as hell aren’t going to see him. Oh, fuck you, you cocksucker. I need what I need don’t you understand? You’re one thick motherfucker, aren’t you? You’d like that wouldn’t you? I’ve seriously had enough of your shit. You don’t own my life. You’re gonna do what I want you to do, you shitbag, or I’m gonna make your life hell. Like I give a fuck. You’re the one that owes me. Is that how you really feel? ‘Cause I don’t give a fuckin’ shit. Oh, Thanks, That means a lot to me. Why don’t you just leave? What do you mean that doesn’t make sense?"



selected lines from my twenties

 

Cut open, displayed.
For the service of
Those above. They know not
Of what I want, but I don’t mind.

 

Looms before us,
We are the ones insignificant to them.
They care not for our sake.
What did we do?

 

Twisted, deformed out of shape.
Price of sins too great.
Even now I don’t hope.
Turn back into the landscape.

 

Great new hope begins now.
From virgin birth, soft glow.
From nothing, there comes something.
Life ready again at now.



all in time

 

The Boy: O’ for I love her so, in so many words but never enough, that I allow her my heart to beat and corrupt, til lastly I am dead. For I love her body, true, her woman’s wiles, but my eye goes far beyond, for many miles. Such a road it is we’ve walked, and the many hours we have talked, that such a simple love of flesh, does not enough for it’s sort of test. Aye, for the love of a mother, a sister, be not enough for me to bestow unto her, lest there be any type of love greater and deeper and richer, for nothing less shall do. To experience life, with its valleys and its hills, without her by my side I do not think I could bear, and such I see as a great misfortune. I think verily that I would require no further excitement in my time, than to love her and to be loved back, to find my eyes reflected in hers, and to know also what lies beyond them. See, for I love her like I do my neighbor, like I do the common man of the earth, with a love of her being in its very existence, a love like that kindled in my heart’s hearth. There is not the affectation of any other that I seek, beyond her’s, to quench the thirst that lies in my breast, to bring me the drink of youth and vitality and fervor, but her alone to be my hallowed server. But alas, she be entreated to the service of another, who may very well be my better, ‘find yourself another bloodletter,’ will she say, her. Of course with such having been said, I would gladly serve her if not full to be paid, if even not alone the sacred herbs must be laid, for her a trifecta would not have me afraid. I humble my pleasures so that she may be mine, till my clothes be held by string of twine, round my nascent bod her heartstring will be affixed, the tight cord bundling the fire’s sticks. I wish only for her needs to be met, with me and her together in each other's arms abreast, that we for the rest of our lives be set, under the dawning sun’s blazing crest. Oh, but nary should I forget the problem that I can tell no one of my pain, lest my outward image and persona so quickly be slain, aye, tis the mark they give upon one he who says, that everlasting burning mark of shame. I think though maybe she be worth such harm, but I should not be quick to forget that such a system is one like a pendulum, that such should I announce my charm, such shall she find herself left vulnerable in the grips of an algorithm. Mayhaps it be the best route to take no path at all, for her sake while her life’s in its Fall, so that the society in which we live may not take appall, perhaps we shall meet in some other hall. And while it may be Spring, yes, it all seems dead and not holy enough to bless, for without her in her lovely dress, I see no reason to play this game, mortal’s chess. Games of the mind not satisfying, nor the like of their ilk worth trying, I find for her my life outlying, and my strange and wicked thoughts multiplying. Truly it must be the most wise, to leave the sphere of her influence in its size, to walk in the fire to baptize, til these fool’s tears from my eye dries. These things I think when I think of her, some thoughts slippery beyond the tongue’s ability to confer, a breath of the universe breathed out from her, my mind and my heart in the greatest of stir. And yet, she loves me not, kind sir, she can’t.

The Merchant: And you must be the biggest fool.