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Dawn of The Dragons

Invictus

Beast Of A Different Burden

Sonbather

The Snowman

The Sins Of The Father

REMINGTON GRAVES

“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 a large Oak tree, despite its immobility.

“My pleasure,” I replied succinctly.

 

You can see my father in the interview become…umm…uncomfortable. He seems calm, doesn’t he? In his winter-green sweater with his legs crossed, quietly clutching his knee, distantly sullen. My uniform matched that ridiculous sweater–the producers told him to wear that color, so that the viewers at home could see me as a very human extension of him, to see that I also, like you and everybody else, has a father. I could feel him breathing, his exhales calculated and baboonish. The interviewer asked us if we ever discussed the murders and my cannibalism, my bean pushing, you know, the whole lot. I replied that we did not since it was all covered in the media anyway. The truth is, my father never brought it up because he, also like myself, was guilty; he was a monster just like me in his own way. But we sat there, together as I gave this clown and his camera, what they wanted; the gladiator, the cannibal, the quiet cretan, the strange lover, the cunning killer, the hellish homo,the son now repentant of his salacious stories. I was angry, and fucking angry, for my father had done things nobody knew about, but me. He knew I knew, on some level. We would sit together in agreement, locked in our moments for the sake of betraying some kind of etiquette, and avoiding confrontation. After all, he was my father. I gave them all that muck about Jesus Christ and how he created the world–what kind of moron believes this nonsense, anyway? My father was a sinner because he believed in a world where things you want and shouldn’t have, are sinful; I am a “sinner” because it keeps me from receiving an unholy ass beating in here in the joint, and extra desserts from time to time.

 

I will never tell of the reasons I was angry, I will not confess its origins; I have caused enough damage. In my path, I made conquerors my victims, and victims my conquerors.

 

I still wonder, to this day, what the phrase “the sins of the father” really means.

∞

 

 

Chimera

REMINGTON GRAVES

Blurring with candor–the badinage statically peeked in from a small portal to the other side

Demigod of the demimonde, the idea delivered drained the rain that once teared down

 

Fever dreams betwixt the maternal thighs

how calm and heavy sweaty sighs

Slouched on leather couch

manicured toe nails pushing up

and how I tried

 

The others innocuously cooed with black feathers sprouting from their throats

And feces spread above in taloned patters on the ceiling

Do you remember the time? She said

I do remember the time, I replied

My sweet child, my first-born, I hated the melancholy look in your eye

I know, that is why I looked away and eventually stared at the ground with you

with them with everyone with always

 

I saw your cousin kissing you by the water well that winter night

Nobody saw me

I saw you

 

Seven warm winds from the east brought the cold breath from the west and the veins of dying trees ached for the day and scoffed at prayers for rain

 

clement benign

wind broken in pipe

small running steps

through monstrous tunnels

splashing up slime

in the water that whined

I did chase chimera

and chimera I did find

  ∞

 

 

Almost Done Here

REMINGTON GRAVES

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 I can dream. I like playing checkers and watching birds sing. The yellow ones are my favorite. Sometimes I watch the Red Robins when I get sick of all the yellow. I also like the Italian women, at least all the ones I’ve seen in the girly magazines. So, anyway, I finally got around to it: I ordered the most beautiful rifle in the world–the Carcano rifle. I think it was made in the 1940s. Kinda heavy too. I wait patiently for it to arrive. March 12 is when I sent off for it. What the hell is taking so long? You know the japs are pretty smart fellas? For my money they’re gonna be leading the world one day, I’m telling you. Their ladies aren’t too ugly, either. Well, anyway, I paid extra dough for one of them precision fancy Japanese scopes to get fitted with it. I wonder if it’s gonna rain today. The rain scared all of us kids in the orphanage when I was growing up. You know the orphanage and the Marines have a lot of things in common, but I’m not gonna go into that. Stresses me out thinking about the past too much. Remember me telling you I was gonna get rid of that military general? Well, I bungled that. Oh, well, it was a fun try. My wife would leave me if she knew the things that go on in my head. But Russian broads are different, you know. They’re not like American girls. They know how to treat a man. But sometimes just some–

 

 

“Darling, are you still in here pushing that pencil again?” She said holding a glass of lemonade and wearing the lavender apron she thought made her look like an endearing house-wife.

“I’m almost done, here. Pour me a glass will you?”

∞

 

 

 

Notable Quotes

J. G. Ballard

“All over the world major museums have bowed to the influence of Disney and become theme parks in their own right. The past, whether Renaissance Italy or Ancient Egypt, is re-assimilated and homogenized into its most digestible form. Desperate for the new, but disappointed with anything but the familiar, we recolonize past and future. The same trend can be seen in personal relationships, in the way people are expected to package themselves, their emotions and sexuality, in attractive and instantly appealing forms.”

 

 

Grave

REMINGTON GRAVES

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 macabre her bare feet gyrated amid the wet grass under a missing moon, cutting large orange and yellow leaves to pieces. The night breeze beckoned and beckoned until the stars faded into an oblivious farewell. Her gown, half wet, clung to her breasts and wrapped between her thighs and nestled neatly in her cunt. An ivory temple–this maiden, with her pallid pillars turning into small hands with thin fingers did point into the infinite void–lush and languid the l’appel du vide. I had lost my place upon the planet as I did what shouldn’t and watched her unwelcomed from afar…mouth agape and tears streaming, cutting as they raced, my hands were two stuttering spiders searching for a hidden home. My feet complained of all the hours and all the days and weeks and years, I had stood waiting with supplication for a saint to save me, that would not come. Of sinners and saints, I know nothing of, for self-preservation is the highest law. And If he arrives and tempts you say, “yes” if yes is what you need to say. And if she appears pleasantly and queer, say, “no” if no is what you want to play. Show me the perfect lover and I’ll show you the grave.

∞

 

 

Before I Would

REMINGTON GRAVES

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 not to me where it came from.  The golden strands from the sun then turned her hair to red as dancing shimmering diamonds bounced upon the water all around her: her smile blazed through the distance between us and her eyes squinted from overwhelming joy. I grinned as I imagined her pretty feet moving back and forth in the murky salt-water scaring all the jellyfish away.

She had convinced me to wear shorts; I never wore shorts–my skinny legs always kept me away from swimming pools and beaches as a child. My right hand shielded me from the sunlight as I bent slightly forward so as to see her better.

 

Her hand touched her lips and then extended to me as she puckered her mouth.

 

Satie’s Gnosienne No. 3 began in my mind but slightly off-key, and I knew…I knew she would say goodbye before I would.

 

 

And maybe, I already had.

∞

 

 

 

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