In a double-dealing world of daunting dames and monotonous men, I remain, at least try as much as I possible can, devoid of duplicity. Hyper-analytical to the core, and constantly questioning with a seething skepticism—logic and science my pillars of persistence and self-preservation my torrid truth. Metaphor has constantly played a part in my life;…
That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe; And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm, Were long be-nightmared. —Keats. Unhappy is he to whom the memories of childhood bring only fear and sadness. Wretched is he who looks back upon lone hours in vast and…
“Thanks for that, Joffrey. We at the network truly appreciate your time,” he said without nuance and pukable normalcy. His typical choice in tie was a daunting distraction. That fucking hairdo was nothing less of hilarious, although I feel that that was understandable–knowing it stemmed from jealousy. The way an eagle covets the shade of…
I’m writing this letter. Well, it’s not really a letter. It’s more like an entry. I heard on the television that writing your feelings down might help with your stress. And that it might help with your anger. Do you think that’s true? Hell, I wonder if it will help me get laid. I guess…
What atrocities had this aching angel of a fierce fall, turned to and tried and finally held fast all which she thought was good? The upside-down flames of red crashed against her pale and speckled shoulders, and she bowed with a curve and she hissed quite unhinged. It was a dance the way so maddeningly…
The sand felt soft in its warm coarseness as my toes made fists while she waved to me from the middle of the waves. Her blonde hair looked almost black. She was wearing the bathing suit her last boyfriend had bought her. I pretended not to know. She looked great in it, and it mattered…
The alchemic stupor that lulled then pulled me under, brought with it bright dancing lights that invaded through my ears with such longing in its horrendous hiss, and with a slow frame-by-frame I saw the toilet bowl in my restroom and managed to turn my face leftward as it made contact with my marrow. …
Pink has always been the perfect color–pastel pink preferably; It is the color of soft cake, the hue of babies breath, the slippers that belong to blonde wives married to mob bosses, the tone swirling in the sink after I cough up a little blood, the tincture of the tramp who truly tells you all…
Light slithered in through the spaces, glaring through like slow shattering glass, swallowing the shadows and severing the stillness. Cavernous echoes conquered the perfect silence, causing a chasm betwixt confusion–correcting errors once despised, reverberating the recalcitrant stares inside the windows of a coffee house sidewinding with snakes; the emptiness expanded as glaring tiny screens pacified…
“Hello, friend, have you got the time?” said a young fellow with dingy Dockers on and gripping his leather-bound bible under is starched long sleeve. “It’s about a quarter past seven,” I said slouching on the bench and watching the water fountain that flowed in the middle of the mall. “Thank you. I’m Moses, nice…
