Saturday, November 1, 2003

Nonchalant.
I felt like writing.

Roses; Part 1

I match wits with the devil in spring amongst the flowers. Chaos is in order here, police enforce it with the baton of justice and the pistol of law. Bullets can solve all ills, learn that well. Blood spurts out of the ground like oil- yet it is worth less in comparison. Understanding the malfunction of creation, the priest stands at the brink before finally jumping off- faith has died. God can't save you from your own humanity, no one can. Stereotypically, a blonde stares confused at the maelstrom before her- even if she is ensanguined with her own blood.

Finally outwitting the devil, I stand triumphant over her dead body.

I had done it. I had finally killed love- the thing that ripped me apart so many times.

Now I had ripped it apart. Even as I thought of this, she was boreing through my heart.

... Damn.

Roses; Part 2

The death of the rose was welcome, shimmers are annoying. Hope cannot exist in futility, yet without hope, futility would not exist. As she said those words, I was distracted by the slow dripping that eminated from beneath me. The young devil smiled sweetly, like a child who had murdered her parents, before departing. Therefore a broken puppet was left, tugging at it's strings melodramatically. With every tug, his strength got weaker and weaker, departing out of his destroyed heart. Finally, the strings broke, depositing him in a junkyard full of other broken dolls, all lamenting over their malfunction. A large heart stood in the center of the junkyard, grafted together of souls and tears. It sang a sorrowful song, almost like the deathbed cries of a mother who never got to see her childs shattered smile.

Dead from love.
Born from love.

It finally fell silent.

The Weatherman

I stood strong before the gray maelstrom, effectively shattering it's overblown ego. The ocean's waves lapped at my feet, pleading with me to end the divine tempest sent to punish us for pseudo-sins that old men and young children sing about. I felt the winds pick up around me, the collective force annhiliating the houses around me. Raising my right hand, a pulse resonated throughout the area, and the hurricane raged with a fury. A fury beyond all compassion and sense that blanketed the area with all the rage a tempest could produce. It knew it was about to die. A green light shone in my palm as the clouds above me parted, a black light cascadeing downwards like a tainted waterfall to envolp me. A second-long piece reverberated outwards, clearing the skies for just a moment.

The resulting explosion liquidated everything within a mile. Skeletal ruins of humans limped around, lamenting their fate at the hands of the divine tempest and it's rival. Bloodied ribbons of flesh danced wildly from the white bone, as they cursed themselves for sinning. Their deaths were filled with screams of woe and bane, my untouched body standing silent- a witness to all of this.

It was the first time I saw a rainbow.

The Teacher

Children enjoy the beatings. I see the blood coming from their lips and noses, they smile. I smile with them- we have come to an understanding. They hate me, I know they do. But ripping their pretty, soft skin into pieces brings pleasure to my mind. As I watch, they withdraw away from me. They form a circle, dancing in their drenched uniforms, singing merrily. I step back through filtered light and take out a gun. Lowering it to one of the little girl's forehead, she stops and tilts her head to the side slowly, a broad smile forming on her face as she thinks about dieing. The others step back and nod silently, accempting the ambivalence that warred in their minds. I pulled the trigger as a tear formed in her eye- there would be no tears tonight. Her blood splattered across everything- the other children, my face, the floor. Her limp body stopped in midfall, like a demonized puppet that was revolting in its mediocrity.

It had only just begun.

The Social Martyr

I walk through crowds of random colors, auras amongst auras. The dull, dreary generic flow of conversation and idle thinking wears on my frayed, sizzleing nerves continueally like sandpaper to a open wound. If there was a God then surely he would not spare these simpletons. The pathways of knowledge lead from light to dark, from peace to chaos, from ectasy to unveiled pain. Religion opens my eye to eye openings- the irony slits my throat like a shard of glass. The crowds part like the Red Sea in Satan's nightmares, revealing the goal at the end- a destination that holds the treasures I have been looking for.

But the lingering odor of the crowd and its ill informed opinons cause my skin to begin to break out.

Ruptureing into a bloodbath, I stand as a martyr for no one in particular.

Dying for nothing important.

Day Old Ambrosia

Hello, my name is monotony. I am androgynous. I taste like strawberries with cream on top- who's cream? Full frontal nudity causes cancer, concerns of fate are not meant to coexist with concerns of morality. Destiny awaits those that have no future. Is the world ready to meet it's maker?

The fact of the matter is grim, the reality is dull. Tired of being tired of being tired, the teenager looks off the edge of a bridge. The gray is welcoming, like warm sheets in the middle of a nuclear winter.

Because of his parents he was created, because of his parents he was destroyed- yet his life remains in his own hands.

Will he flip a coin to decide, the pressure is mounting. The cool nights breeze is like the ghost of a kiss.

Amusing prospect.

But you must be quiet. They are always listening.

Yet, they never call..
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