Everything is kind of dying.
From the initial point dividing.
Factors fracture faculties fixed,
Light expansions cyclically twist.
Earned in being,
Sparked alight,
Shooting from the darkest night,
Every expanding ebb and flow,
Down through all the rabbit holes.
Courses cursed and minds collide
Crushing indifference founding
Fundamental divides.
Spinning orb a give and take
On until volcanos wake.
Guilty masses ill at ease,
Stagnant distractions
Numbing squeeze.
Debt accrues with the loss of past
Mother natures weakened grasp
While now
Everything is kind of dying
But touched with wisdom
Dawns enlightening.
To have lived would mean
An end was plausible,
So realize it now
Life is possible.
Dreams of the Guillotine
Standing here at the guillotine
About to lose my head
The thought arrives that I’d rather be
Anywhere else than dead
*
I’m not sure how I got here
The reasons are quite confused
Regardless of the answer
I stand here as the accused
*
Passing out is not an option
As my troubles are indeed deep
Hopefully before blade meets neck
I can wake from this horrid sleep
this stall is occupied
i can't afford
a private hell.
my hell is
a public bathroom
with no locks
where travelers come and go:
i smear my shit on the walls,
like letters on a computer screen
hoping to deter them
but it only seems to attract more
like flies.
they gawk at
my display,
some even call it art,
as i smear my innards on the walls.
i can't help it;
my innermost thoughts must always be
thrust out
like vomit
after a long night
even when they'd be better left
unwritten.
my mind, like my body,
must shed its waste,
but it is not flushed so easily
down the toilet.
my pipes
are clogged,
choking on filth.
trash
with nowhere to go
simply makes its home
wherever it is convenient:
collecting
in frantic internet posts
that are quickly buried,
filling the gaps in my brain
until it begins to rot,
eating away my memories,
just to sustain its malformed flesh.
i can't afford
a private hell.
mine is a public bathroom,
where everyone comes
to dump their waste,
here and then gone.
yet i remain:
i haven't finished
dumping my load yet.
Mourning
Every morning when I expect to hear your knock at my door, and I don’t….. I'm in HELL.
Every time I go to the bathroom and see the light you just bought and installed for me…..
I’m in HELL.
Every time I’m in public and am reminded of a time we shared over the past 13 years or even something you enjoyed…..
I’m in HELL.
Every time I start thinking about what I should’ve said or done differently……
I’m in HELL.
Every time I wish I could have just one hour, minute, or even a second to say goodbye……
I’m in HELL.
Every time I realize that I have to remain here - without you…
I’m in HELL.
But, every time I look into our son’s bright, blue eyes and see yours staring back at me …........
For just a moment…..
I’m in Heaven.
I will always love you.
R.I.P
Patrick Stone aka "Pitty Pat”
08/28/1978 – 04/19/2023
On Repeat
BabyShark do do do do do
Baby Shark do do do do do
Baby Shark do do do do do
Baby Shark do do do do do
Mommy shark do do do do do
Mommy shark do do do do do
Mommy shark do do do do do
Mommy shark do do do do do
Daddy Shark do do do do do
Daddy Shark do do do do do
Daddy Shark do do do do do
Daddy Shark do do do do do
Gandma Shark do do do do do
Gandma Shark do do do do do
Gandma Shark do do do do do
Gandma Shark do do do do do
Grandpa Shark do do do do do
Grandpa Shark do do do do do
Grandpa Shark do do do do do
Grandpa Shark do do do do do
Little fish do do do do do
Little fish do do do do do
Little fish do do do do do
Little fish do do do do do
Hungry Sharks do do do do do
Hungry Sharks do do do do do
Hungry Sharks do do do do do
Hungry Sharks do do do do do
Swim away do do do do do
Swim away do do do do do
Swim away do do do do do
Swim away do do do do do
Swim faster do do do do do
Swim faster do do do do do
Swim faster do do do do do
Swim faster do do do do do
Safe at last do do do do do
Safe at last do do do do do
Safe at last do do do do do
Safe at last do do do do do
bye bye sharks do do do do do
bye bye sharks do do do do do
bye bye sharks do do do do do
bye bye sharks do do do do do
(goes back to the top and repeats for eternity)
Standing Strong
They stare with their wandering eyes,
They don’t know the pain I despise,
My scars hide the pain inside,
Thirty surgeries in and the fact there won’t be more, lies!
Fear of the blade, blood like past wars, trying.
I won't let them win or see me crying.
I stand strong, proud of my scars,
The war within, ever brewing, always trying.
Invisible illness hiding inside trying to get out,
The pain never goes away but gets worse in bouts,
EDS, POTS, others, the diagnosis such a lout,
I will not let this break me down or pout.
I am who I’m meant to be despite the pain,
I stand strong, be brave, live to sustain,
The warrior within is always just under the skin,
Take heart, be valiant and I won’t let my pain be in vain.
Virelai, Your New Favorite Meal, and Reverb with an Epidemic Noted...
Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.
In today's vid on the channel, we look at two user challenges, some damn good writing, and the accidental death of a recent video. Oh, and if you're going to record without headphones in frame, uplug them. An old dog learned a new trick for next time. Anyway: Here's the link.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-StiZEFTtEk
And.
As always........
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
and the blind guitarist will play on
for hours and hours
he lies
down
but doesn’t sleep
“Can’t sleep when your
eyes aren’t
tired,” he says
but his eyes are
beyond tiredness. They’re dead.
Been fished out
quite expertly
a long time ago by a
very unfortunate, very unhappy
mother who couldn’t stand
looking into them
“Bitch should’ve gouged
her own then,” he says
these days, laughing and
making jokes about it
Not a lot of
people
find them funny though
but that’s all right
he’s not some standup comedian
No, he sits down
on the park bench
and plays the guitar
from noon to morning
for eager audiences of
dead children
who look up to him as a hero
Sometimes
real people
even throw coins at him
sometimes
even food
And all his songs
are about
cheering
and loving life
***
INSTAGRAM:
https://www.instagram.com/bogdan_1_dragos/
Goth Kids, False Apathy, and a Black and White Butthole
My buddy, John, went to school at the University of Arizona back in the late 80's/90's. We lived together in a rental just off campus. He took a photography class. I know you're worried about the title at this point. Rest at ease-- he did not take a picture of anyone's anus. There's a sentence I never would have guessed I'd put in writing. Where was I? Right! Photography class.
Late teens/early twenties-- who isn't an artist, am I right? So John, a 4.0 student from 4.0 family takes photography as an elective, and he's into it. He's taking pictures of all kinds of shit-- his fish, the tree in front yard, the huge rock named Burt, which is also in the front yard. (It's Tucson-- summertime, people start naming rocks. Blow me, it gets friggin hot.) Where was I? Right! He's taking pictures of everything, just hoping something is... I don't know... artistic?
He's not getting the image he wants, and he's coming up on a deadline, so he's desperate. He buys some clay and starts sculpting. Mind you, John is no sculptor. He doesn't know what the hell he's doing but he's going after this clay like an animal... an animal! I'd had my wisdom teeth removed a day or two before, and I was slipping fried zucchinis covered with ranch into my mouth like quarters in a slot machine because they fit. John kept at his wad of clay. After enough zucchini, the pain killers set in.
I came to in about an hour. John, having worked and re-worked his clay wad at least a hundred times over a period of about three hours, had finally achieved something he was certain he could photograph, and maintain his 4.0 in doing so-- he held before my waking, eyes, a giant cock and balls.
"Get that thing... the hell away from me."
"What, you don't like it?"
"No, I friggin' love it, just keep it away from me."
So he puts together his spread of photographs, and I mean, he's tickled pink with himself. He's going for shock value and nothing else. Why? Because, in the world of photographic art, in John's vast repertoire of talent, there was nothing else. Dude couldn't recognize photographic opportunity if he'd walked through Yosemite with Ansel as his guide. So he planned a to make a statement to all the prissy, bullshit artists with their camera shutter speeds and their lighting angles and their super-expensive photo-quality paper stock. He didn't care anymore. Or so he said. He did care. He only pretended not to care, so that he could live with the fact that he wasn't the artist he hoped he would be.
That whole situation put a needle in the back of my brain for twenty-five years. It pissed me off to no end, and I didn't really know how to get it all laid out straight until the "Raisins" episode of South Park. Stan was all butt-hurt because Wendy dumped him (don't even try to pretend you don't know exactly what episode I'm talking about). He degrades himself into one of the Goth kids. Of course, Stan isn't raising a big middle finger to all of society, per se, he's just bummed about Wendy. But the Goth kids were the embodiment of the false apathy which overtook John in his non-quest for something truly meaningful.
Instead of accepting that they don't fit in with the crowds they'd like to, the Goth kids opted to "go Goth," and simply declare that the crowds which didn't accept them were not worthy of their membership in the first place. John had decided that he couldn't find the type of art which "fit the mold," and instead of being courageous and creating his own mold, he raised a huge middle finger to the entire art world, in the form of a giant clay cock and balls, and went for shock value. He might as well have dressed in black, painted his fingernails, and posted himself on the steps beside the loading dock behind the cafeteria.
He was prepared to drop the class the next day. He rolled into class looking forward to disgust and silent ridicule written all over his teacher's face. He's take his seat for attendance purposes only, and just wait for that smug prick to dare say something negative about the heap of crap he'd turned in the day before. The whole plan backfired spectacularly. He had the second-highest grade in class for his project. The teacher loved it. The only higher grade went to a feisty co-ed who actually did take a picture of her own butthole.
We all know the difference between art and smut. It's as plain-as-day as the difference between a movie director and a porn director. You don't have the talent, but you've got bills to pay. Beauty escapes you, so you paint your fingernails, pretend you don't care, and start dropping F-bombs as if endless waves of vulgarity belong in any venue that doesn't have two-drink minimum.