Monthly Archives: October 2011


I like to watch the spinning cogs,

The turning wheels,

The pistons churning.

My machine,

Well oiled and clean,

Spinning and cranking,

Rolling and banking.

Spitting black smoke,

Dissolving a stream of gasoline.

Revolving belts driving its writhing and crawling,

Its infinate clanking, chugging, and whirring.

It is fascinating, it is perplexing.

It is my machine.

Tapping Glass (Picture it & write #2)


Another Picture It & Write Exercise by Ermilia:


A shockwave emits

From the tapping glass,

A tidal wave, a hurricane.

Something massive,

A pressure,

Huge and ungraspable

Casts a shadow across a trembling crowd.

A crowd of infants facing a storm so vast,

So great a storm, it seems, we have never known.

A horrible tragedy on the brink

Of transpiration

As the Hand

Knocks on the glass,

And once again,

The contents cower.



Wandering through the darkness.

I wonder what we’ve got left.

Warm up by the sparkless flame spilling garbage

Over our sea.

The crystal black murkiness.

I’ll spill my guts in it,

All I can see is the blackened iron curtain

In front of me

Hanging suspended from the charred black sea

That bleeds from the earth in misery.

Desolate solitude.

A stuttering slender spilling wasteland.

Endlessly stretched paper thin.

But there’s something within that pale bleeding skin,

A paper bag closed to the grabbing hand,

Grabbing and dropping the spilling sand.

A Cold Wind

There’s a cold wind that blows.

An icy wind that blows away the sun.

A frozen wind that haunts empty halls.

It tears everything away,

It leaves nothing.

It runs through my veins.

The chistling, harrowing, lethal breath.

It carves up my insides and pushes them aside.

It whistles its dreadful tune through the winding cavities of my heart,

You can hear it even now.

The ghost of lifelessness, stirring in its empty place.

It is all I know.

That same old song, flooding my ears,

The aching tune.

I taste it, it is bitter and hard.

It touches my heart and leaves me cold.

I know it far too well.

Its presence dishonors my sight,

Even now.

I stare into Its eyes,

Its chilling breath fogs the mirror.


Some of you might find this poem to be simply… (Bio)shocking. Enjoy.



Would you kindly.

Would you kindly

Powerful phrase…

Familiar phrase?


Would you kindly.


Would you kindly.




A man chooses.

Would you tell me

Every truth,

Every lie,

Every thought,

All the things that you think

Before you pull the trigger.

A slave obeys.

Like Adam and Eve

You were innocent once

Before the fall,

Before the crash.

Your farm,

Your family,

Your memories,

A painted façade

For that applaud

Your kindly creator.

Your purpose.

Would you kindly


Choose your weapon

And make your choice.

Would you kindly?

A man chooses.

A slave obeys.

In this life

We all make choices;

But in the end

Our choices





The final words of a man who chose the Impossible. A man who chose Rapture.

Andrew Ryan ????-1960

Chapter Nine- A Private of the Rebel Army


Wilde seemed bewildered by my tale, but she remained stoic in manner all the same. I could see her eyes measuring my words, testing me like one might test an untrodden bridge. Jackson entered the room with a look of grim expectancy on his face.

“Well, welcome aboard Will.” Jackson’s jaw dropped like a sack of bricks. Even Quincy’s beady eyes seemed wide behind his round spectacles.

I stammered. “But…”

Wilde cut the words from my mouth. “But what? Do you intend to deny my hospitality? You crawled into my home, my fortress, like a rat through a crack in the wall! You’re on my turf! Your wretched presence eked out of my tunnel! You do not get a choice, and you shouldn’t need one anyways.” Continue reading

Picture Passed

I guess I’m a living record of things that have passed.

A detailed picture of the world of the past.

A broken bottle, a bat smashing glass.

A labyrinth written out across a memory so vast.

Mom and Dad loved each other then,

Or before then.

Things changed, very fast.

I couldn’t conceive the coming ending,

Back when this nightmare was just begining,

They loved eachother, they were one then,

and they both lived and thought they would live again

the very next day, but things were different then.

One belongs to prison now, justice took him away.

The other belongs to God, or whoever’s up that way.

Maybe I could have changed it, I really don’t know,

They always say that picture is still in my eyes,

Those final words, that final fight,

But I don’t know.

Not many words are captured by ears

Four years old.

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