[x]

once upon a time when the world was still new,
all things were still.

the earth that my brother created
was a block,
a sphere carved from the hollow of his cheek
that he set down
unfurled
& dusted off
beneath our feet.

and though

all space lived in stasis,
all stasis lived in space,

the whole lot of us revolved
around a block of earth and the words of one brother.

when things changed,
we set the sun in the sky

with my sister's light
and my neverending folly.

luck spun the sky and then things changed.

the earth now moves
and we creatures,
vile as we are,
remain static.

the earth revolves around the sun,
in this world

smokescreened.

His door didn't seal.

The light leaked through in morse code. It was more dotted than dashed in the shady light of underground morning, smoky from that dirty chainsmoker mouth, chapped and broken from a night of second hand liquor and first hand regret.

He checked his watch. It didn't work.

Even after so long in the darkness, he still opened his eyes every now and again to check if the sun was still out.

He felt it. That mouth still gnawing at his throat, all docile words and violent farewells. Those fingers on his abdomen curling into his stomach and tearing.

His skin.

He coughed.

He was overdue.

The door didn't seal. It was easy eno

Spinebone.

She left the window open tonight to shiver out the food she couldn't purge. Left herself available, vulnerable, laid her corpse out with her ribcage regalia on display-- all breathe in breathe out with the quickening pace of the heartbeats in her head-- for the walls, for the sky, for the gawkers and the pointers and the perverts to see, oh, to see how fat and disgusting and terrible she really, really was.

She pressed play.

"... you're wrong, you know."

"Yeah, I'm wrong, then. You say I'm wrong, so--"

"...it must be true."

Ghosted lips and scripted words. She'd listened to it enough times now to whisper the words by her failure of

anitya.

my hands are discarded.

they are
throwaways--
negligible in the eyes of
all my fathers,
all my brothers,
all my lovers.

and yet

when my lips touch down to
these stones unwashed
all these halls,
walls,
catcalls--
the scent of this home chills my
senses to the subzero vapor
of all the marrow i share my meals with.

every day i look at
these hands
that aren't strong,
that aren't capable,
that aren't what he wants,
and i cleave them from my mouth,
from my throat

in hopes that tomorrow,
maybe
they'll come back as something better.

they don't.

i wake up and i look at
these hands
that no one wants--
not even me
not

elbows + knees

this is an epiphany,
my epiphany of
insurrection
of a faster face
of dirty glass glances

& scattered debris.

i want
for my kind
to be the kind
the languished kind
unkindled
alt
laughable
kind

burnt & surrendered

indistinguishable
et untrainable

kind.

the kind it takes to crush
sand to glass,
the heat
oh the heat

& the cold--

it'll cool
settle
entropize
polarize
&

instinctualize

the dead sufficed
insufflated
kind

the kind that burns on contact
and blows crisply away.

i want to know more than this.

the kind
of scrapes i've got
from cat clawing
from picking locks
from

crawling

elbows & knees,
too man

scavengers.

nevermind it.

hush.

it rustles.
did you hear?

i remember back when the machine still breathed. when i close my eyes i can still taste her oil in my teeth.

when she rustled, i heard.

i heard.

i am a reminder of the old city. common times all commonplace in the rubble of her breast.

i've still got her fight in me.

when the city ceased to be and all the weak were glazed, there was a war. a very small war, but it was war nonetheless. i fought this war. it was all selfish-- every man for himself. flesh versus metal, teeth and bone and blood versus gears and wires and synthetics. everyone was to blame. no one was at fault. it was not a que

Trespasses.

When she looked up, the sky was grey, brackish with rusts and oily browns. The clouds hung low-- soggy, waterlogged creatures too heavy to float in such liquid oxygens. The greenish cast of the supposed sun scattered its debris across the ailing landscape. There was nothing here. Nothing. A path cut through, regardless. Like someone would be traveling out here along this unsung road of broken glass, tetanus wire, and rotten wood.

But she was. That's where she stood, her breath caught between two fence posts. Weak and overworked, the curve of her spine wilted into the weight and drag of her endless walk. She left no footsteps, only trace re

a heavy parchment envelope.

Know all men by these present that I, Adrien St. Croix, being of sound and disposing mind and memory, do make, publish, and declare the following to be my Last Will and Testament, hereby revoking all Wills made by me at any time heretofore.

This Will is not the standard. This is not the meat of cookie cut legal fodder. No potato, vegetable, or other filler present for my lawyer to consume. This is for you all, my closest comrades, companions, and, dare I say, friends. This will never be seen by anyone. I hope it's never seen by you. But if these words are leaving your lips then I'm afraid that I have fallen on these to say the goodbyes tha

remember me. remember, me.

"iio," he said gently, fingers twining in that white hair.

she was terrified of looking at him. for all she knew, he was dead-- and this was his corpse, speaking to her in ashen tongues. these ashes, his ashes

and she was covered in his body.

"look at me. sis..."

"paris," she murmured, still clinging to sleep. this was all she wanted. to lay in his arms. she felt water lapping at her heels. ankles. calves. the water rose and she snapped to.

she was standing, now, on a pyre-- linen figurines peppered the horizon and she balked when she realized she was standing in his coffin. a thousand hands with a million fingers clawed through the rott

carnivore.

once, a very, very long time ago, an old man told me that i was a carnivore.

he worked an old gas station on a lonely stretch of road. route 66, i do believe. me and arkady were trying to buy some beer. we were 17.

carnivores, he continued, know how to survive.

a rare breed
to be.

i wasn't so sure about any of that.

arkady was off fucking with the pacman machine. ate his quarter. i told him he should have played space invaders. i fucking told him.

if i'm the carnivore, i asked, then what are you?

prey,
he replied
with an old guy smile tha

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remember me. remember, me.

carnivore.

ta'trasya

the youthful oracle crept silently. through trees, across streams. from stone to stone, branch to branch, she made her way home.

it was warm, here. warmed by the light of the fires that burned bright. like beacons. like safety.

masozi saw no one-- but it was late. perhaps they'd found sleep and only the tribe's scouts scoured the outskirts of the city of scavenger huts and treehouses that made up the ba'at tribe's central capital.

she needed to find her mother. she needed to call upon her father.

many scouts were out but the one that caught sight of the swift panther was amadi. he watched the encampment with bat eyes; he did not miss

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cardboard.

by *iscariotic, Jan 27, 2010, 3:52:59 AM
Literature / Poetry / Transgressive / Free Verse

he'd never been any good at
^footfall^ings.

day by day in that
_old ^back? when it never worked

he lived off the papers that cluttered the gutter of his doors.

he rend them to pieces
tore them apart
shredded each bit
on the roof of his mouth
and let the ink
bleach its mark to the back of
his tongue.

he swallowed.

and in the hollow^s of his ^I. eye,
he precluded all these taunts,
swallowed these letters to his belly and abused
every ^line _touch word
he could get his filthy lips around.

it was no^t surpris^inge ^even when he choked.

but with every fall
^footfall
he touched a tete
a-tete-a-tete
AND HOW HE WISHED
fucking wished
he could remember how to
swallow.

he spent all his years at the top of the skyline.
he spent every mo^urning on the sidewalk.
he'd never been any good at
falling.

cardboard.by *iscariotic

Literature / Poetry / Transgressive / Free Verse

^{RETROFITTED.
WEBSITE || INSANEJOURNAL

still recruiting. Swallow solo.

if you know who the iconmaker is, lemme know so i can credit.}

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~TehLemon Mar 23, 2010

_{Beautifully written. I love the use of text formats, definitely adds more character and, dare I say, oomph.}

~Quonginongnong Feb 17, 2010 Writer

This is brilliant beyond compare! I love all the text formatting, it keeps it alive and adds physical meaning as well as that already greatly developed. You're poetry is simply amazing! _{Reminds me a bit of the book House of Leaves, by Mark Z. Danielewski...}

*xlntwtch Feb 2, 2010 Writer

truly brilliant

~theekali Jan 31, 2010

This is the definition of gorgeous.

~Left4Lucy Jan 30, 2010 Photographer

it's a masterpiece.

~Questioner2 Jan 29, 2010

`hokuto Jan 27, 2010

Oh, thoroughly beautiful indeed.

*ADORES*

~shally123 Jan 27, 2010

I'm amazed...

~FrostedSwitchblade Jan 27, 2010

With most artists, they are either very good in one medium, mediocre in more than one medium, or dreadful in all media. It is very rare that one comes across an artist as multitalented as you.

!pixellatedcandy Jan 27, 2010

You continue to amaze me...

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