September 01 2014, 11:04 AM


There’s a point in every story, usually about 1/3 - 1/2 of the way through, where, if it’s going to start going downhill in a way that’s tough to recover, that trajectory is going to start showing itself right around that marker. If it’s a story I’m attached to (and most of them are, or why I bother with them?), that’s a devastating, almost debilitating feeling. Once in a while I can use brute force to push the story to around the 2/3 - 3/4 mark just to be sure, but often if it started to go bad earlier, it doesn’t get any better. And so I end up with a tall stack of stories all stalled in about the same place. I’ll make myself open those files, still, and try to work with them again, but I’ll get overwhelmed with a strong sleepiness almost immediately that makes it hard to think. Everything feels like I’m looking at it through Vaseline. If I close that file and work on something that hasn’t stalled yet, everything clears. At least until I hit the 1/3 - 1/2 mark on that one, and then we start that cycle again.

Writers are weird.

September 01 2014, 09:14 AM


9 Quotes for the Ultimate Book Lover

September 01 2014, 07:23 AM

What do I do for you?


" With insecurity trapped in your throat like a lozenge, you whisper, "What do I even do for you?"
I take a minute to think.
I shouldn’t have waited.
I should have said the first thing that came to mind.
“You make me human.”
It might sound dramatic, but that’s the only way I can describe it.

After years of feeling numb
And twice as long feeling tormented
You make me feel human again
More importantly, you make me feel special
Something my parents, closest friends, and deepest lovers could never do
They way you touched me and looked at me
The way you laid in my hair
Held ever part of me
The way you stared, admired, me
I felt that
I felt a lot from that

You make me feel human again
More importantly, you make me feel special
Like you’ve never done this for anyone else before
Like no one in the world could feel like this
No one was like me
And no one ever could be
I’ve never felt like that before

I was always not like anyone
And would never be anyone
Never be special to anyone
I was just someone

You make me feel human again
More importantly, you make me feel special
Instead of a brain or a bookworm, I was a woman
I was “Jamaican Queen”
And even though it was kind of corny
I knew you had never done that for anyone before
I knew no one else was going to be that for you
Because no one was THIS Jamaican Queen to you

With insecurity trapped in your throat like a lozenge, you whisper, “What do I even do for you?”
I take a minute to think.
And with confidence hanging on my shoulders like a robe
I whisper right into the nape of your neck
“You make me whole.” “

September 01 2014, 05:32 AM

Like Glue


and i know i am,
for lack of a better friend,
lost in your self-deception.
in all these silences
your sticky, sweet, and miserable
dreams run through your arteries,
and fat and fleshy fingers close
and cling to me.
you tell me it gets better
when I’m not.
anything but
drenched in all those dreams we saw
of some holier place we’d never get
where we peel till we dissociate
from all they ever said we were.
but in my nightmares we’re all in our sleeping bags
bating till nothing is left in our brains.
you are sinew
i’m a skeleton
and all your pretty, sweet,
and sticky dreams won’t do anything
but cling to me.
you’ll wait but i’ll be no longer
just sipping and breaking and wasting
all that is left of your silly dreams.
i’m sorry, believe me,
i want you to be the one.

September 01 2014, 03:41 AM

*heavy sleep*


Riding on the brink
of sleep, heavy headed
whispers press
against my skull
like a vice,

straining to swallow
the birdsong
and voices
of a bleach white
morning —coffee too hot
but not strong enough,

there are pills to pick you up
pills to put you down,
but is there something
to take for monotony,
for halfway in between
halfway under water?

All this smoke
those car horns,
they shake the afternoon
colours into life,
and devastating
and pitiful.

September 01 2014, 01:51 AM
1 note  •  Via: schnoc

Advice from a Caterpillar


by Amy Gerstler

Chew your way into a new world.
Munch leaves. Molt. Rest. Molt
again. Self-reinvention is everything.
Spin many nests. Cultivate stinging
bristles. Don’t get sentimental
about your discarded skins. Grow
quickly. Develop a yen for nettles.
Alternate crumpling and climbing. Rely
on your antennae. Sequester poisons
in your body for use at a later date.
When threatened, emit foul odors
in self-defense. Behave cryptically
to confuse predators: change colors, spit,
or feign death. If all else fails, taste terrible.

September 01 2014, 12:22 AM

Snooze Button

This was the fifth time this morning she’d slammed her hand down on that snooze button, and it was starting to drive him up the wall. Why set an alarm in the first place if she wasn’t going to use it? Apparently, she was just using it as some kind of reminder of the passage of time rather than the means to be punctual for anything.
Eleven. Eleven was what finally set him off. He had had enough.
Storming into the room, he grabbed the offending appliance from the table and yanked it full on from the wall, the cord splitting in the back and rendering it completely useless, the green flashing numbers no longer present on its face.
From beneath the mess of tangled hair, she peered up at him with a questioning look, then down at the device in his hands before closing her eyes again.
"… you were the one that gave that to me, you know." Her voice was muffled beneath the covers hugged to her face.
"With the intention of you using it the right way." His scowl was saying enough how much of a mistake he thought he’d made purchasing the damn thing in the first place.
"Right way, wrong way, who cares. I was still using it, wasn’t I?"
That was enough to soothe his anger, given everything they’d faced together. With what little they’d had left, it was the first thing he bought to return some amount of normalcy to their lives.
He didn’t get to reminisce for very long before one of the fluffy pillows found his face and fell to the floor.
"Looks like you’re the one that’s going to be getting me up in the mornings."
Grabbing the pillow, he threw it back at the covered lump as hard as he could, a short scream muted beneath. He, too, followed the path of the pillow, falling on top of her as he tried to wrestle from out of the confines of the sheets.
"In the most annoying way possible!"

August 28 2014, 01:57 AM

The squeak of that creaky wooden chair was our weakness
Stifled giggles against one another as we tried to keep our momentum
You insisted on the hip-swivel approach
While I chose the jackhammer, knees aching at the repetitive push against gravity
And still that chair groaned and ached and complained under our weights
Begging for it to be over.
Little did it know what a long night it had ahead of it.

August 28 2014, 01:51 AM
7 notes  •  Via: pxmcvm

Bleeding Corpses


the thought
that love’s what would
only save us
the hell out of me.

They say that
in the end
love remains
our decaying flesh.

But oftentimes—

when my heart skips a beat
when your arms are back around me
when we are breathing again—

I push back my fear
against the wall and
let my blood spill
on the ground.

I try to believe
that these times
would end it.

August 27 2014, 11:37 PM
kittygory replied to your post:Cyrano
Wow! This is cool…and kinda scary! LOL!

I think it would be a great game for the classroom, to be honest.

August 27 2014, 11:15 PM


So if any of you are interested in a really cool game, there’s one called “Cyrano” where you and your friends compete at writing short 4-line poems. You’re given a topic and the sounds to use for your rhyming words at the end of each line. You’re also not allowed to use the example words given. You also have to give your poem a title. It has some rules from Boggle in order for you to win.
Needless to say, some of these entries got… interesting. And very NSFW. I’m only sharing a few of the best ones.

Subject: New York
"In Manhattan looking to score
Not doing well, feeling pretty glum
The best on offer is a back-alley whore
She smells like old fish and looks like Gollum.”

Subject: The Sea
"On open water, a ship of metals
Crisp air has me feeling alive
Submarine starts to go under, the ballast settles
Ah oo gah, ah oo gah, dive dive.”

Subject: A Kiss
"When I speak to you my voice is frail
Thinking of kissing your skin so pale
Meet me while I come/cum up to the ladder
Then clean the window sill of my batter.”

Subject: A Kiss
"A kiss from a lover, there’s nothing greater
It’s like finding the Holy Grail
But I don’t know what that would entail
I’m a chronic masturbater.”

Subject: Religion
"Since the earliest days, everyone knows
Of a book that might fit in your pocket
Word to live by, in rhyme and in prose
The stupid Bible can suck it.”

Subject: New York
"Hark! A train, hear it comes with a roar
Look! A leaper, he jumps to the tracks on the floor
Listen! A crunch! He’s been turned into chum
Mmmm! Yum!!!!!”

August 27 2014, 02:46 PM

In the dark


She fucks with the lights off
Because bodies are things
Best left unseen
Hands tell a more romantic story
Than your eyes
Then your eyes
“Use your eyes as a last resort”
Your tongue will tell you more
Your lips will draw her secrets from her chest
In gasps and screams
Your eyes will never tell you anything
But lies
Eyes are too easily deceived
“Use your eyes as a last resort”
She fucks in the dark
For all of these reasons
Because eyes are deceivers

August 27 2014, 12:55 PM

where we went


When the apocalypse happens it will be soft. It will happen over years and across miles. We will end up in Iowa wondering why we are growing inedible corn and missing the sight of the ocean from before it inundated the places we used to love. Because you see we are not the children of some distant star, this is home, and we grapple to the end with the silent cataclysm that growls offshore and overhead. 

Men, evolution-minded, will accuse women for this. The human failing, they will say, is the result of runaway sexual selection, driven by women. Women, they will say, should have chosen wiser men. But we will all be to blame and pondering the eccentricities of our peculiar evolution will do little to stop the advance of the end.

In a dwindling world, tethered to each other by hooks in our eyelids, we will offer prayers to gods we will have thought we stopped believing in. Some will say we wronged those gods. Others will say we never deserved this. Scientists will point out that we have survived worse than this quiet catastrophe. And the Cold War survivors will cry because the agony of the slow death is so much greater than that of nuclear holocaust.

And someday, long after the sun has swallowed the Earth and the lights of the galaxy have begun to flicker and die, the last sign of distant space will recede over the horizon, like ships bound for a forgotten shore. We won’t be there. Entropy implacably marches on: who are we to slow it down?

August 27 2014, 05:32 AM



Back to when I was anointed
Exalted and then exploited
Most poets pretend to be Moses
A testament to be avoided 
Kneeling in front of my death knell 
Where they drove in the nails 
And a messiah was appointed 
Pennies for thoughts as I was wished well
Which way to hell?
I hail from a maelstrom
And feigned reign over a regime that has failed                           
Take me back to where I once came from
I promise not to tell
A thousand suns couldn’t brighten this fate
Hide in the shade in shame
Shadows of truth 
No safe haven for the brave
Ripped out our only sanctuary from it’s roots
While we’re still here waiting to be saved 
Stuck in between tongue and cheek is a rotten tooth
Most wait for a shallow grave
I’ve murdered every single muse
That happened to stay
Tomorrow is just proof
That nothing matters today…

August 27 2014, 03:41 AM

church parking lots are such a bust


It’s not something I would rather do alone, it
happened to the stories that used to make us
the theater. It slants downhill so I like riding
by in America on a gathering of stories from 
fingertips or in my dreams. When I was in
pavement, we’re talking about three or four
sounds of the wheels rolling across the
abandoned average, left out in the dust. It doesn’t
wash my feet after a long skate. When I lived
in your ears, knowing that they are original in
their own way, free-riding the pivot of no happiness
did you not contain the dream, and believe that the time
we feel inside knew about the things at your back?
I kind of feel good and smooth. I never really
kick off with a smooth start anymore, and getting
black ink all over that shit like a magnet sometimes
just listens to the sounds of riding
 your feet feel numb

(seed text: Thrasher, Issue 408, July 2014)