Out
25 Wednesday Mar 2015
Posted Uncategorized
in25 Wednesday Mar 2015
Posted Uncategorized
in19 Thursday Mar 2015
Posted Gargleblaster, Writing
inTags
18 Wednesday Mar 2015
When Angus O’Sonnell says jump, Cavanaugh doesn’t ask how high. He’s the one responsible for figuring out lift and acceleration and the effects of the gravitational field on the jumping body. So when Angus gives him a task on the night of February 22, Cavanaugh just nods and gets it done. And he gets it done in Vegas, because if you are going to be spending an… an… obscene is really the word for it, but Cavanaugh also thinks this is a blasphemous amount of money. An abomination of money. If you’re going to do that, you might as well do it in the cesspit of corruption and wealth that is Las Vegas, Nevada. Continue reading
12 Thursday Mar 2015
Posted Gargleblaster, Uncategorized
inTags
Sisyphus’s rock sounds like fingernails chewing tinfoil on a chalkboard as it rolls back down. Again. Beelzebub is whining about spiders. Still. Sometimes I wonder, picking the stones of Mount Hermon out of my feet, if I chose right. I miss flying.
11 Wednesday Mar 2015
Posted Uncategorized
inThe rain
casts a shadow
of dry earth under eaves
where – huddled flat against the wall –
I wait
Evening
is falling like
the sound of raindrops, drip?
by drop? below the surface of the day?
And gone?
I hold
inside my throat
a dream of winter’s end –
of fog-dressed fields below blue skies
at dawn.
The clouds
are calving, damp
and gravid with new rain;
I turn my face up to the sky
to watch.
Below,
the valley hides
a trestle track; the train
chatters past the stream where cows wade
and drink.
The rain
is falling like
a dream of winter’s end;
I turn my face up to the sky
and drink.
Here’s a little cinquain for this month’s poetry slam at yeah write. It’s a garland cinquain, because I’m an overachiever like that: the sixth stanza is made up of lines from the first five, in order.
05 Thursday Mar 2015
Posted Poetry
inMonday’s tongue is rough velvet. She likes to fuck
Standing up, wants me to fill
Her mouth with all six
Inches of hypothetical cock, while she maintains the fiction
That it’s eight, spitting curse words
As she gives me what I tell her I need
Tuesday’s got a need
Or two of her own. She wants to fuck
Me with words,
A cunning linguist, that one, who can fill
The empty spaces with a running chatter of fiction
While counting syllables, two four six.
Wednesday’s thirty, going on six
Likes to beg for each need
Wants me to help maintain the fiction
That she’s my little one, to fuck
Her carefully, fill
Her with only flowery words
Thursday’s got nothing but words
No repeated thrust of six
Inches – or was it eight – no hole to fill
She wants to be what I need
Wants to fuck
Wants that fiction
Friday’s the best at fiction
The best at choosing her words
Like cock, like cunt and fuck
But quitting time’s at six
And later I’ll need
More, to have my fill
Saturday has time to kill; to fill
My world and turn it into fiction
She has only one need:
To hear the right words
I close my eyes and count to six
And don’t think about how much I’d like to fuck
I fill my hand, I fuck
Myself with fiction and for a moment I’m not one but six
These days I need more than just words.
05 Thursday Mar 2015
Posted Uncategorized
in