Monthly Archives: February 2012

Now That You’re Gone

I’m sorry.
I guess I was wrong
All along,

Not that it matters now anyways.
But you would want to hear it
So I said it.

I’ve thought about it for days.

Now that you’re gone
We don’t talk on the phone.
I don’t tell you you’re wrong
And you don’t slam the door.

Now that you’re gone
You don’t care anymore.
You don’t stare at me angrily
Glaring into the shallow depths
Of my eyes.

You don’t kick me in the shins.
Or get mad when I win
Call of Duty matches.
And you don’t ever give in
And cave into my arms.

You don’t tell me how you really feel.
Or felt.
You can’t.

Now that you’re gone
I know I was wrong
To hurt you so bad.
To deliberately
Make you mad and
Push you one step too far.

Now that you’re gone,
I am wrong.
Part of me is gone
And I am sorry.
I guess I was an idiot.
Until it was too late.

Now you’re gone
And you’ll never finish that list.

Because now that you’re gone
You’ll never know what I missed.

The Incurable Ail

Oh madam,
You are stricken by a terrible thing.
A malaise of which the mournful sing.
A frightful, aching, potent disease.
An infirmity that brings mankind to its knees.
A injustice of a sort that few of us know.
The curse of which sirens and witches crow.
The crown of thorns atop a bloodied brow.
An illness no man can deny or allow.
But I know the incurable ail that’s afflicting you.
It is your beauty,
And it afflicts me too.

Character Draft 1: The Mountain Man

I watched his spidery, muscly muscular form warp and stretch as he shifted up the building. Night was settling, and the Mountain Man was traversing his begotten obstacle; the dusty grey monument of a building that he currently clung to the side of. The streets had been drained of any hint of life that may have existed earlier, and nothing but an empty, flat, and straight space remained. An overtone of grey comfortably rested on the fully urbanized streets of District F2. The Mountain Man’s coat was pushed and pulled by the wind, and he shifted ever so slightly with it. It was worrying to watch him, he always threatened to slip, but somehow never did. He climbed steadily, tirelessly. Over the days I had spied on him, he seemed always to be climbing. He climbed drowsily, without hurry, but never ceased.

He was as grey as the city itself. His coat, grey and crumpled, shrouded his sooty flesh marked with lines of age. His hood revealed nothing but the occasional touch of his stony eyes, and his unsmiling, unshaven mouth. He moved very slowly.

Yet, in danger, a vitality incomparable to any other radiated from him. Under his thick coat–and thicker shell–was a heart throbbing with life. A mechanical drive for action, for victory, for justice. In his heart were the scorching flames of a dissatisfaction with a life set in stone.

And a chance at action had arrived.

On the street below, a child had been abducted. The frontest foremost man had thrown the boy over his shoulder, and the group carted him down the nearly abandoned street. The boy was screaming murderously. Across the road I saw other eyes peaking out of cracks in curtains, watching the scene unfold. The men moved slowly, with little worry. They wouldn’t be caught, the Guard cared little about petty crimes amidst civilians. However, from the view of my window, I saw the rooftops above, and the swift fate approaching the abductors. The hooded man leapt from one building to the next, gaining on the group rapidly. He moved with such grace and speed I could not resist but to simply staring at him in awe, mouth agape. He had sped far ahead of the men at this point, and now stood directly across from my place in the window, perched at the top of the splotchy, cheap building. Waiting, like a hawk choosing eyeing its rabbit. He drew his crudely constructed hooks from under his jacket. They resembled crooked ice picks, but had a much more quiet and menacing glow about them. The group was entirely incredulous of the man, and laughed amongst themselves as they pushed the few bystanders aside who got in their way.

The Mountain Man’s head tilted up, and for only a fraction of a moment, he looked right at me. His eyes were squinted, and gleamed with the sureness of impending victory. A crooked smile was plastered to his face. And no more than a second later, his heavy frame delicately lifted from the ledge. He stylishly fell from the height, catching windowsills with pedaling feet to slow the effect of gravity on him. Within five seconds, he had reached the exact spot of where his prey had stepped, around three meters above them. With masterful timing, he lashed out with his feet against the façade, projecting himself from his close proximity to the building, towards the open space above the sidewalk. Now he fell, with nothing between him and the men but a suspenseful cloud of air. His picks were drawn above his head.

With a sharp crack I could hear from six stories above, the tip of the left pick drove into the skull of the man to the farthest right, burying themselves itself deeply within his head. The man in the back was the only one to instantly realize the arrival of the violent guest, and his peeled open with terror-stricken surprise. The Mountain Man left the pick lodged in the skull of the falling corpse, and swung his right pick into the guts of the unfortunate witness, before the criminal could even flinch. The other two were turning now, reacting slowly to the commotion. The pick that was lodged in the stomach of the second victim was quickly retracted. The remaining two, thoroughly shocked, were slow to draw. The Mountain Man swung his pick with immense velocity towards the remaining two men, splattering them with gore drawn from the impaled man’s insides. They drew back, to shield themselves from the spray, and in the moment they were blinded, he struck at them, ripping out their throats. Ten seconds had passed, and nothing was left but a bloody mess of paling, lifeless bodies.

The child, who fortunately had been dropped near the beginning of this episode, was lying in the street. The hooded man, now painted with blood, turned to him. He slowly approached the boy, and slowly offered his hand. The child was tiny in contrast to the massive features of the Mountain Man, his uncultivated hand barely wrapped around one of his savior’s fingers. He pulled the boy to his feet, and knelt down to whisper in his ear. A second later, he was scaling the building again, more quickly now, and the child was scampering home, in a frightened daze.

He followed the boy the entire way.

A Broken Vase

A swept away lie
You and I
An aging face
A broken vase
There is no glue
For me and you
No way to guise,
No ceramic reprise.
We can sweep it away
Away from here
We can make
Our mistake
But the simple truth
No photobooth
Or letters of
Or love serum
Can erase
The vase
Forever smashed
On the floor

I Heard It Said

I heard it said
That quitters quit
and batters hit
And everyone spits

I heard it said
That hatters hat
batters who bat
and make a living doing that

I heard it said
That poets rhyme
Some of the time
And that’s no offence

I heard it said
That fencers fence
And fencers fight
And wars are fought
In day or night
and knights fight wars
For kings or lords
Whose rights to fight
Are often ignored.

I heard it said
That bakers bake bread
And mothers bread chicken
And chickens lose heads
to feed children at dinner
Who might grow up to be:

A quitter,
A spitter,
A batter,
A hatter,
A poet or king,
A lord or a baker
a knight,
A mother,
(perhaps a knightly mother)
A fencer,
Or a fighter,

But they will likely not be
Any form of poultry.

Pass the Baton

Pass the baton
The sickness, the pain.
Problems persist.
And more are passed on.
Hand out the hurt,
Scars and bruises,
Blackened fuses
Wither in countdown
To detonation.
And the baton is passed.
Hold out your hand,
Take mine,
And share your disease.
Drink from the cup,
The wine of the broken.
Accept the
Silent invocation
Of the troubled souls
Of this world
To accept
The baton of misfortune,
And past it on.

All I Need

When we first met
A chance of a glance
From you
Was all I needed.

When you hugged me first
It tempted some thirst…
But how my heart beated
Was all I needed.

When you got in my car
Monday, every week.
All I needed was a kiss on the cheek.
At first, at least.

And when you brought me inside,
And kissed my lips,
Urged my hands to your hips,
And whispered you wanted to be mine.

I smiled,


That was all I needed.

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