View Full Version : Writing, poetry. Beasts, starship, madmen and other everyday things

2010-01-21, 06:26 PM
Things I have written.
Please say what you think :)

"Fool, into the void"

He had a name once. A strict, orderly name. That kind of name that gave a child grief, an adolescent confused smiles and a genius the utmost respect and admiration.

He doesn’t have a name anymore. He isn’t a genius anymore. He’s a god. He receives the same offhanded admiration as a god. The same mundane contempt and love. To his followers, he is the stern father and the unruly child. They follow his every command, as long as those commands go with the scriptures they wrote for him. Thick tomes that nauseated him back in the day when he still cared to read them. When he tried to rebel, they chained him to the helm, on the bridge that became his temple. Only the highest priests come there. They control it. Masked under their ceremonies, they have the most basic understanding of its function. They pray to him, their prayers masked and confused pleas for help and his answers are twisted into new tomes and new riddles and new prophesies.
He has contemplated suicide. To stop eating their offerings. To bash his skull open against the helm…
But he can’t. He knows how much they need him. He knows the ship. He knows that without him it would wither and die. He still cares for the descendants of his crew, regardless of their crimes.
And deep inside, he still hopes.
That he can lead them home.
That he can save them.
A fools hope.

"Whimsical people in a beautiful city."

Sitting by the door
Of the welded shut bomb shelter
Woman with no eyes.

Staring from the roof.
Of the shut-down theatre.
Three eyes, no pupils.

Those old rough sleepers.
Who laugh as the world roll by.
Their fangs are so white.

Children in the park.
Tell of men in the shadows.
Too many fingers.

The nightshift workers.
Whisper of muffled voices.
From shadowy rafters.

Yet I still wonder.
Who is the man behind me?
His face is rotten.

2010-02-11, 12:10 PM
A journey to the rusted place.

The car falls apart.
The roof peels off like the lid of a sardine can.
The doors folds back like wings.
The windows bubble and melt, and the rubber of the wheels catch fire.
Soon, only my seat and the wheel remains, and I keep driving.
It rebuilds itself, a streamlined snake, a train, and the road curls to a pipe, in which I hurl forwards, faster and faster.
My passengers laugh.
Loud, howling laughs, high-pitched shrieks, low, rumbling chuckles.
The lights flash by, and the train keeps going faster.
The laughter of my passengers intoxicates me.
My reflection grins back at me.
His eyes are wide open.
His teeth are tombstones, cut from white marble, planted in pale, pink dirt.
His nostrils flared, and from them, as well as from his eyes, streams of blood pour like the rain from the gutters of the bank-building downtown…
He does not scare me, as for some reason, I feel nothing but love for him.
The train jerks to a halt, and I am cast towards my reflection, and we meet in a violent parody of a kiss, breaking my nose and crashing through the window.
I am cast unto the tracks, and my passengers get of at a platform carved into the rusted steel wall.
Their laughter has quieted, and their inhuman silhouettes speak of fear and lust and rage.
I rise, and as I try to climb the platform, a clawed hand casts me down.
Looking up I see a sad and solemn gray face with round and deep black eyes.
The creature shakes his head slowly, and point towards where the crowd is going.
They pass through a white stone door towards something that sounds like both a factory and a nursery. The light is soft and blinding.
It is not a place for one such as me, and the thought saddens and relieves me to an equal degree...
I get back on the train as the last of them get of.
Some look at me, some condemning, some hateful, some longing and some sympathetic.

But most are too entranced by the passageway to acknowledge my presence.
When the clang of their feet on the steel grating floor dies out, the door closes, and the train once again lunge forward.
I awake in my car by the freeway, to the stench of gasoline and blood.
Blue lights.
Steel beaks pry loose the roof, the doors, and strong hands put me on a stretcher.
- Will he make it?
- Probably not…
If I could laugh, I would.
I still do, and it fails to escape my lips.
A sting of a new pain, and I sink down below the ground, to a soft and blinding world of steel and rust.