Tag: ks0722

A set list.

You remember

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The cold measured cuts
of your nightmares are real.
It’s true.
When you could no longer torture
yourself, you turned the blade on me.
I went down in the surprise round.
You waited for me to come to
and flipped me over,
and made me watch
your blade’s slow agony
sweep and slice and spin
through your deadly whispers.
You took breaks with girlish laughter,
And unrestrained joy.
They’re always so short.
When you return you
catch my eyes
and bow low
slowly
sweeping the blade.
And you raise
slower still,
holding my gaze
and lurch
pinpoint,
a clean kill.

That happened.
You did that.
It’s true.
You tortured
And you killed
Deliberately.
You pretend the charnel ground doesn’t exist;
It’s unsightly and filled with dark secrets.

Endnotes

Note

I may have jumped the gun in this one. It's changing fast. Faster than readers can cope with—they'll be various versions of this floating around now.

It came about because I want to write the bubble bath series, but to make it worth while I'll need to spread it out so I can better test the code.

Then I got excited by a couple lines, and couldn't not scribble and scribble.

And then technical issues happened, and I was faced with publishing or loosing. So yeah, a lot of things came together causing this premature birth. It's gonna be hit and miss for a while.

I'm still trying to figure out if it's a poem or a story or a letter from the frontline.

Post Information
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Key Value
Title You remember
Date
Author
NotesHow are you going to make up for that?
Draftlast (#inprogress)
Darlings Killed

Many, many, many. Including:

That happened.
You did that.
It's true.
No greater good came.
No epiphanies revealed.
No scars healed.
You tortured.
And you killed.
Deliberately.
You avoid the charnel ground now.
It's unsightly and filled with dark secrets.

Category Poems
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Short URL https://fmonk.quasigentsia.com/?p=5880
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Thud-klomp

Thud-klomp thud-klomp
the booted hooves come
stomping across the lava
fields into your house.

Your cats scream and run
but you’re frozen in place
mouth agape, batter dripping
from a wooden spoon.

If you were sitting in a fire

If you were sitting in a fire,
Which direction would you face?
East is the obvious answer,
Back against the sunset
Waiting for night.

“A Throne!”


“You, you,” he points at you,
“You can’t be in my audience,”
And collapses.

There are no stagehands here
To shuffle away his bones,
“It’s a one man show!”

He now understands his mistake,
But he’s proud of shrinking
The universe down to a man.
Who does that?
“The Artist!” he’ll inevitably cry
And laugh because it’s ludicrous.

“I took tickets too.”
And he cleaned the aisles
And he built you a throne
With cheesecloth and cardboard,
“And my soul!” Yes, yes, of course.

And there now you are
In the throne he constructed
And he’s not ready to be seen or heard
“Or exist!” No, no, of course.

Episode Link | Archive Item | YouTube

Call it love.

The lone survivor of the ambush and subsequent tortures suffered survivor’s guilt and post traumatic stress disorder for his remaining days. Mostly in bed waiting to hear from an ally.

Solace never came. No trust or hope now. Just ruin. Ruin and decay. And one lone broken poet spreading the story, but leaving off the ending—he will have none think ill of his ally.
Continue reading Call it love.