She wipes the black ink off her fingers and throws the crumpled up paper tissue into the toilet where it slowly unfolds to look like a subtly splendorous angel spreading it’s wings.
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Category: Fiction
Prose and poetry – short-stories, experiments, micro-stories, automatic writing, nano-stories and other fictional writing.
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Saintists & blank halls
Two saintists – I’m Stein and New Tron – are gluing a boat of gravy in sight of blank halls.
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Found back
A worn and torn paperback. Unintelligible scribbles in the margins. Graphite fingerprints all over. Eraser remains in excess all over page 11. One of the blank pages in the back has a drawing of a door from a famous building. But there is no such door. As far as I know.
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Lurking shark
I forgot about the shark. Thought it had retreated to the depth, subdued, never to return. Then a sudden burst of foaming water. Glistening teeth thrashing at a false hint of fear. Now everyone can see the blood in my mouth.
When I’m happy
my brain gets creative
and makes jokes.
When I’m anxious
my brain panics and
hides behind jokes.
Good luck guessing.
I long to be wanted
wanted by someone
else than the law
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My favorite transubstantiation
The best thing I know
Is writing in a flow
To enter into fiction
Without contradiction
Expanding my dreams
Without any seams
Dissolving my entire self
To coagulate in my shelf
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Relative Perspective
You perceive me
as a curve,
but to me
I’m just an equation.
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About poems
Poems are fleeting and eternal. Sharp shards of reality, lacerating splinters of fiction. Fluttering into existing before they are written, stuck in amber once sheathed in words.
Poems are heartpiercing asomatic bloodinjecting reverse-leech entities in symbiotic relationship with corporeal beings that possess at least some kind of rudimentary language.
Poems are. Both, either, neither – catuskotic. Trouble, comfort, brazen, chaste, chaotic, controlled, sparse, dense, sparse and dense, opaque, archaic, original, intense, nonsense.
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Some people
Some people gave up too easily. Some wouldn’t give up though it was obviously futile. Some never tried. Some tried too hard. Some didn’t notice they did it. Some never had to do it. Some never knew there was an option. Some thought it was a punishment. Some just laughed at it all.
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Wrong turns
I took some wrong turns and now I’m driving deeper and deeper into the dense forest on a dirtroad. Nowhere to turn around. No idea where I was going. Not since I lost the map. Getting dark. The battery is discharging. Can’t see myself in the rear view mirror, so not sure what face I wear.
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Electric feel
I lost my phaze, I’m disturbodied, I walk like amother, the needless in my language appoints to red, I dream of talking dog-gods, I survive on amino acid supplamentings, I ridle the lightning-wave of the missilent mygrains, I subduel the statictrical chaos awry moonment.
Small dark fishes are chewing on my heart. I see parts of me float with the bubbles. Ascending to the surface. To the waiting birds. I can not stop the decay. I am the weight that keeps me down. The fish keep chewing on my heart.
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Fading advice
She took my hand with a kind smile and looked into my eyes. As she faded away – while I slowly awoke – she said: “If you try to fly on symbolic wings you will fall.”
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Writingling ficitioneiric wordeals
Comfortification of the remissanthropic escapex predatormentors bringestingrained criesoterics and burstochastical feardrums to the dreamorphic writerrifiers and piercinguling their stillfated premonition sicknessays with atonementalismaniac powerewolves.
Dreamsmear all over my body is hard to rub away. Plaster clogging my eyes. Machinegun neurons firing constantly. Tinnitus reverberation on insane level. Worse when worse. Feel my body swollen from carbohydrate intoxication. Warehouse instinct hijacked by the existing anxiety pushing out the clothes by storing all that dense unfathomable energy.
The words of order scrambled into encrypted noise as I try to decipher only rudimentary particles of complex molecular structures turn out. But I know there is chemistry, I know there is biology, I know there is consciousness. But it’s incomprehensible to me, I live in the swarm. I listen, want to understand, but their vibrating wings are not quite the same as vocal chords.
And so the sensitivity is turned up impossibly high. Keylessly I carry food in a locked backpack. Wings get in, buzz in my belly, distracting. I don’t want it-me to be filled by sound. So I run around in my head as I did as a child. I never grew like I should. Couldn’t stand in that box, never saw the shape, never realized that the shadow is also an existing thing, stuck to my feet.
Historical forensics try to sort out the chain of events that led to this meticulous mind that tries to keep her chaos in order. Finicky stimming, process excess, often unable to milk the nib for words. Taste my tongue – hemaglobinary salvia and thyme passes if kneaded well. A thunderstorm of pure information rustles through the leave me alone. Prognostics hold their breath.
I haven’t adjusted my appearance for weeks. I haven’t been kissed for months. I haven’t been born for years. I have no haven, nowhere in mind to release the tension of being alive. Where are the hands that hold me while I melt apart and where are the fingers that define what is me and what is something else? No difference makes no difference. I’m burning so much energy trying to be someone special instead of being everyone at once.
The slow expansion and the slower contraction, like a one year pulse of the body. It’s a frequency, it’s a vibration, it’s a message. Encoded in the mass there is something to understand. It slips away from my mind and I have never known anything about my own song. The wings, the cords, the amplitude of the pulse are inexplicable to me. There is a mystery hidden in dreamsmear all over my body. To hard to rub away.
There’s a child in the little woodland lake, just below the surface. I see her dark shape in the water. I try to reach her, but my strength is gone. The wind moves my rowboat away from her until I lose sight. Who was she, what would she have become if I’d been able to save her?
Every night, every day, there are moving shadows in the water. They swim and play, happy and teasing. They lure me, want me to catch them, to bring them up into the boat. They want to breathe and manifest. They are children of my imagination, my ideas, my mind, my life.
The less you look the more I exist. Like a faraway light in the night. Look a bit on the side and I become brighter. In daylight I hide in plain sight, invisible to naked eyes, only knowable to open-minded hearts. Words are my intangible body. I am the dance of little ghosts.
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Reduction by complication
I’m neurons firing in the golden halls up high. I’m hormones reigning in bloody hell. I’m the salty tears from the currents and chemicals of Sodom and Gomorrah. I’m the coalesced sentry of the connectome adrift in a forest of nothing.
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Perspective
If you were on Venus
Earth would look
like Venus does
From Earth