if i wrote you a love poem
it would involve muscle and bone
fire and spirits disappearing as one
ancient symbols and rickety chairs
which break under
the weight of metaphor
we don’t speak in
ownership yet there is
an undefined sense of be-longing
there is no pain with us
i’d like to keep it that way
if I wrote you a love poem
it would invoke receipts and ledgers
disappearances from wallets, sacrifices
because no symbol is more ancient
and you would say love is
more than what we spend
we don’t speak in
the same language
I want to say: here is what we give
we give up for each other
and it is not a form of pain
and it is a shape of love
Too tired to write the start of a novel draft; having fun checking notes, altering names. EX: I had a monster-hunter named Glavon; after some googling to be sure it probably didn’t Mean Anything, it is now Galvin. Which has the benefit of being an actual name people use. The problem with my typing style is that I don’t know if Galvon was a conscious choice or a typo that I just used thereafter not realizing it was one.
I tend to be very scattershot in naming; sometimes I wait for a name to come to me, othertimes use a random generator several times and combine results, others do fun in-jokes no one reading the story will get. For example, one of the two groups of witches at war is a Bridge Club. Some of them even play bridge, so the members of it were named via combining first and last names of writers of books about bridge. All the werewolves in a chess club have names that mean wolf. There is nothing like that for the rest of the characters [I think] beyond some named for various hints/plots a reader might get.
That the rest of the names probably have no neat meanings or hints about them would probably drive someone mad who tried to find them. So this post might be a helpful note to literary scholars of the future. Or probably not.
… time to figure out more plot stuff.
"It is not that god is missing: rather, one should say, hiding in shame that this poor universe that was the best that god could make. We are proof it was a failure. Well, us and the platypus."
"You see," said the magician, "real magic requires ingenuity."
“You billed yourself as a hat and rabbit trick.”
“Yes, but how many other magicians can pull a hat from the rabbit?”
"Everything is just tickety-boo," the AI explained when asked how its systems were functioning.
“I am X. I fit into Y. I am part of Z.
I am not allowed to have opinions
on your suffering,” I explained.
“I think someone told me it is
your privilege at least once, that
your humanity must be alien to me,”
and only snapped another photo
I would use as a header for a poem.
”Is not all news good news? If there is no news to be given, it is because there is either nothing left to give or receive it.”
It became harder to love you once I found out about the bodies. Harder, but not impossible.
The boy who played God
Put his hand into my poetry.
He cut out a word
From a poem and said “it sounds
Better this way”.
I stared at him for a good minute,
And then ripped out
His heart and placed it to
My ear. “It sounds better
This way” I whispered.
His eyes rolled to the back
Of hell and I smiled at him;
“This world is not yours,
It is mine.”
is my sin
“The world is full of monsters, Clay.” Ms. Thorn offered up an almost-smile. “Surely the news teaches even children that, if nothing else does.”
“I know that. I do,” Clay protested though the teacher said nothing. “But they’re people before they are monsters; Galvin refused to believe that.”
“Which is why he took a swing at you.”
“But he is not in detention. Do you know why you are?”
“Because I am the new kid?”
“That is only somewhat correct.” He looked up, half-expecting her to split open and reveal something Other. “Even monsters have the capacity to love and be loved, Clay. Some days I think that is what creates them. We are slaves to ourselves as much as the Gods. But it is those desires, our slavery to ourselves, that can allow us to walk paths that gods do not set. Sometimes even ones they cannot see. Glavon will not understand this: I have some small hope that you can.”
Every will that I am falls
Apart before your wishing
— Every will that I am fails
A part before your smiling
He had never seen it before.
The UFO is the unexplained.
The unknown, mysterious,
unexplained & inexplainable.
It was wood. Not plywood,
not oak: cherry perhaps (not
cheery at all: dark paint
for darkened hearts) and
it had other names – not
just mystery. It was home
after home was no more
It was silence after speech
it was the ending after
silence. The unknown.
A whole that was empty.
“It’s just a coffin. He isn’t
really here,” they explain
as if that makes any sense
at all to anyone. As if the
tears were for nothing and
sorrow didn’t wear human
faces but grey alien masks
like the dead wore
no longer their own
and the UFO closed
and was lowered
into the earth and
did not fly in the air.
In this brilliantly fun mockumentary from German filmmaker Till Nowak, a man named Dr. Nick Laslowicz from the Institue for Centrifugal Research (ICR) recounts his “achievements in the realms of brain manipulation, excessive G-Force and prenatal simulations,” stating unequivocally
"The mistake is in nature. Gravity is a mistake."