DarkDecember's blog

You know, I always associate
Waiting for my turn at a poetry slam
With really terrible things
Like sitting on death row
Or being led to sacrifice.

And y’know, I can’t help but think
I’m not the only one
Cause all the waiting poets I see
Are a shade of green
That would make the Wicked Witch of the West
Look like Key Lime Pie.

It’s kinda like being at a slaughterhouse
(Told you, terrible things)
You watch the other animals go forward
And you know you’re going to be next soon
And the people holding the axe
Show no mercy.

But it’s just the waiting that’s a slaughterhouse
Cause being on the stage
Is like being an assassin
Get in, do the job, get out
Feel no emotion.

And after you’re off is like Free Cone Day
Nothing in the world tastes sweeter.
 

"Where were you last night?"

He grins laconically. "Gonna have to be more specific than that."

The cop takes a long deep breath and forces himself not to strangle the young punk in front of him. "Where were you last night between the hours of five and eleven?"

"Why? Someone kick it?"

"Just answer the question."

He leans back in his chair. "I dunno, man, my memory's kinda rusty."

The cops grabs him by the front of the shirt and slams him against the wall. "Now, listen here, asshole. I don't have time for this shit, so just answer the goddamn question!"

He stares at the cop, then looks away. "Line."

The director groans inwardly. "Cut!"

A techie reads him the line while the actor playing the cop thinks that in his day, actors knew their lines.

This is based off the Regina Spektor song of the same name. I'd check it out if I were you, because it's excellent. :)

And If You Do, Then You're My Friend
She is skipping and dancing down the street, and he watches her as he walks behind her. She never bothers to slow down for him- either he keeps up or he doesn't. She plays invisible hopscotch on the sidewalk.
He decides to catch up to her today. He jogs up next to her, and she flashes him a bright smile.
"Bonjour, mon chere!" she says in her bright, bouncy way. He smiles.
"Are you going to speak French all day?"
"Non." Her voice is serene.
"Just for some of it?"
"Oui."
He chuckles. "Well, that's all right then."

And If You Don't, Then You're My Foe
She twines her fingers with his like she's weaving a basket made of their fingers and swings them. She's tugging him along, and she's skipping ahead of him. He's trying to keep up with her, but he doesn't really do skipping. She stops suddenly, and he's launched forwards, startled. Her hand holding his snaps him back, and he looks at her, bewildered.
She flashes him a smile. He shakes his head.
"You're crazy."
"Oui."
He doesn't fail to notice that she walks at the same pace as him now, though, swinging their hands more slowly. He doesn't bring it up, however, in case she smacks him up the back of the head. She tends to do that when he gloats.

  Read more »

Thing 1: Do Not Call Converse Sneakers
      "Converse are not sneakers," she said to me sternly one day as we wiped the tables. "Converse are a thing above sneakers. They are to sneakers what Adele is to Ke$ha."
      I rolled my eyes, checking the clock to see when we have our lunch break. "Uh-huh."
      "Don't patronize me."
      "Don't give me lectures on the differences between Converse and sneakers."
      "If you had any semblence of intelligence, I wouldn't need to explain the difference."

  Read more »

He likes to leave bits of paper on windowsills and watch people pick them up and read them. Sometimes he writes nonsensical things about the accordion wanting to be a real boy. He loves the smiles on peoples' faces after those ones. Sometimes he writes poetry about how Shakespeare smoked generic cigarettes when he was blocked and how everyone wants a pirate ship because pirate ships represent freedom. He likes the thoughtful looks just as much as the smiles.

One time he wrote his life's story, minus the ending, because he couldn't think of one. He left it on a windowsill. A girl picked it up. He watched as she read about his scary grandfather with the monocle, and how he'd hide between the chair legs when Mom was drunk, and how once she hurled a pair of sugar tongs at him in a drunken rage and now there's a scar on his right arm.

The girl carelesly drops the paper on the ground and walks away. He breaks into uncontrollable, almost hysterical laughter, so people glare at him as they walk by.

It's cause he's realized that this incident is the perfect way to end that story.

Hello, welcome, such a pleasure to have you in our esteem-ed store. Could I, perhaps, interest you in an angel and a devil?

Oh, no, they're not very big, not at all. Perhaps the size of your neck, so when perched on your shoulder standing on tiptoe they may just whisper in your ear.

Delightful, delightful. Hm? Really? Oh, no, not at all, it's just harps and pitchforks are a little, well, how shall I say, passe. Excellent decision, yes, one I would make myself, if I may say so.

No, no, halos and horns are very much in fashion, I assue you. Smaller horns are much in style these days, not the great curling things, much too gaudy.

Hm? Oh, I am terribly sorry, but we really can't sell you the devil without the angel. It's a package deal, you understand, it works both ways- we couldn't give you the angel without the devil either. Thank you, so few are as understanding.

Excellent, will there be anything else? No? Here you are, do enjoy. Oh, no no no no no, it's absolutely free of charge. Trust me, it more than pays for itself. No trouble, no trouble. Thank you, do come again.

Twist twist twist

twist twist twist

twist twist twist

as I braid myself a new

bookmark I wonder if the fates

aren't knitters but braiders and this

life thing is a lot simpler than we think and instead

of stitches and needles and a ball of

yarn that is waiting to be cut it's just

three strands of yarn that have already

been cut and tied and all there is to

life is

twist twist twist

it seems almost too simple and we have

been taught that everything is more complex than

it seems that there is no such thing as a free lunch

and usually they're right it's rarely that easy sometimes a

cross on the path is simply two sticks that

happened to fall on top of each other and a shooting

star is just a chunk of rock I think it would be in

our nature, a certain irony residing deep in

our bones if life was so easy as

twist twist twist.

The moon is full

Werewolves in Ireland shriek

All the psychics shift in their beds

Troubled by the screams of spirits

And all over the world

Women are readying their rituals.

All have the same purpose

As they sprinkle salt around their chosen lairs

All make the same motions

Only semi-aware of the others axistence

Too singleminded in their task

To focus on anything else.

They use pig’s blood to mark their circles

Based on ley lines and Satan’s signs

Some say they only use the blood of infant piglets

To symbolize the children that might’ve been

Had not so many sisters been lost at Salem

Those wiser know this to be a lie.

They sprinkle bone dust over the unholy circle

To ensure it dries faster

They have only a night to work

And so they paint their faces with the blood

Until they appear a thing inhuman.

The chants begin

A tongue like every other language known in life

And no words ever spoken before

Connecting to the mistress who has

Absolute power over the witches of the world

Who will give them all instruction.

She has no voice, only power

As ancient as evil and as strong as diamond

The person you see in the mirror out of the corner of your eye

But never existed when you return to check

She never was, but is

And always has been.

They connect in a circle around the world

The whole Earth shivers

The Mistress Witch instructs them

Tells them how to damage and warp life

In the smallest ways Read more »

1: Get up in the morning. It’s definitely tricky, especially because she always used to wake you up in the morning, and now the side of the bed is cold where she used to sleep. She was always a morning person. But you’ve got to get up in the morning, nonetheless, and morning is technically before noon, so that’s a decent time frame.

2: Go to the kitchen. You’ve always hated the color of the walls- stark white, blank white, there-is-no-hope-snowstorm-white. She always used to say that the white wasn’t blank, but full of invisible possibilities, could-happens and maybes that only became clear later. These days it reminds you of hospital rooms. You remember those all too clearly these days.

3: Put the kettle on. She bought you the kettle for your birthday a couple years ago. It was painted fancifully, splattered with colors, like Pollack. Now it seems grotesque, like it’s laughing at you. Reminding you of her love of simplicity, because she claimed there is no such thing.

4: Take a mug. Avoid her favorite ones. It brings up too many memories, and you don’t want to have another breakdown.

5: The filters are not the right size. They are never the right size. You used to cut the edges off and put them in collages. She would watch in amusement. “You artists,” she’d say, mock judgmental, mock haughty. “Always taking things apart or making them. Is it hard, being you?” You’d laugh. These days you just cram the filter into the thing that holds the filter. It doesn’t fit, but close enough.

6: One has got to get the right amount of coffee. You don’t, not anymore. You just put a couple scoops in, not noticing whether there’s too much or too little. There are more important things to deal with in life. Read more »

I hate you

I growl          

My voice is echoing in the silence between us

I mean it

I just can’t…

I trail away

Averting my gaze

I can’t think of any words for what I feel for you

At that precise instant

So I pause

But it doesn’t last long

I shout at you

For what feels like years

I scream curse words that don’t belong in a place like this

I yell about how I should’ve run away

The day I met you

About how I never should’ve talked to you

About how the knives you drove into me

Were unlike any other

And how you hurt me

In ways I never could’ve imagined

Your utter silence kills me

I end my rant with a scream

I should just throw all of your stuff

Out onto the curb right now!

The only sound in the graveyard

Are the tweets of birds

I sink down in front of your gravestone

But I won’t

I whisper

Voice cracking on won’t

I don’t say anything after that

Because what can I say

The same things I say every anniversary

Say I’ll never throw your stuff away

Because after two years

It still smells like you

Say that I still leave our door unlocked

Because I’m still hoping that you’ll have just forgotten your key

And you’ll walk in like nothing happened

Say that I was right about you wearing a helmet

When you rode that goddamned motorcycle

Apparently helmets don’t help as much as you’d think Read more »

Phineas Gage had a hole in his head

He was a railroad worker in Cavendish

A tamping iron went right through his head

And landed on the other side of him

Within a few minutes he was talking

And sitting upright

But then for many months

He was practically comatose

People expected his death

They had his coffin at the ready

But he recovered

Changed, certainly

No one can go through that amount of pain unscathed

But recovered Read more »

You told me once that

Being underwater in the ocean

Is like flying in outer space

Cause you need a suit to see the beauty

And you can see a whole world

You never saw before

And for one crystal moment

You are weightless

And everything makes sense.

I get where you’re coming from

But I think you’re wrong

I think that flying

Is like listening to Etta James.

Flying is like listening to Etta James Read more »

My mother is cleaning out the fridge

When there is a thump

Like a gravedigger's final pat

On the soil covering a coffin

In a graveyard filled with stones

And all the windows shake.

My aunt looks up from where

She is playing Ring Around the Rosie

With my little sister and nieces

Do you think she knows

That game is about death?

So many omens.

She goes out to the front porch

And is gone for a few moments

When she comes back

There is something cradled between her cupped hands

Something small and feathery

And still.

She walks into the kitchen

And shows my mother

Who is still kneeling in front of the fridge

Surrounded by long since spoiled hamburger

And the lasagna in the back of the fridge

That everybody forgot about.

"Look at this," my aunt says

With the slightly hollow tone

Of someone who is in the presence

Of a capsule devoid of life

And will soon forget about it

Like it never had breath in the first place.

She shows my mother what rests

In the fragile casket she has made with her hands

It's a bird

A little thing of feathers

Who worried like us

But perhaps had more freedoms.

"Oh," my mohter says

Tone trapping the same counterfeit sorrow

As my aunt had

In that "Oh" a cage is constructed

Capturing a shadow of

The real thing.

"Poor little guy must've flown in the window,"

My aunt says Read more »

I have wings on the back of my shirt

They remind me of angel wings

They're the kind of wings

I'd tattoo on my back

If I didn't want to act

And wasn't worried about

The repercussions of an angel wings tattoo

Sometimes when I wear the shirt

I kid myself that I can feel the wings on my back

Would I fly?

What would I do

If I did fly?

I'm a bit of a dork

So I'd probably hover high over my neighborhood Read more »

Your black eye that is encircled by

A capuchin monkey-fur colored ring

Is gazing at me

As your fluffy yellow body

Shaped like a slightly deformed Cheeto

Lies on a stack of books and papers

Maybe it’s the lack of a nose

But you remind me of the Sphinx

Unmoving and unchanging.

I don’t know a lot about you

Except that you appear to scare the crap out of my friend

And when he lobs you at me

After I place you on his shoulder Read more »

One day when you were playing Original Soul

On your awful old CD player that you’ve had to fix

More times than I’ve got fingers

You said out of nowhere in the middle

Of Grace singing about hidden superstitions Read more »

You sound like my doctor

Saying Sylvia Plath is bad for me

That I should take two Shel Silverstein

And call you in the morning

I’d like to know where you got your degree

In medicinal poetry

You read me Dante by firelight in Italian

It’s the only Italian you know

And you wouldn’t know what you were saying

If you hadn’t read the English translation a hundred times

Poetry is not the only way that you and I connect Read more »

Hey there, man, can you spare a dime?

Only it gets real cold out here

Alone with all the other freaks

And we're saving up the dimes

Cause we think eventually we'll have enough

To turn us into real boys and girls.

Hey there, sister, can you spare some time?

Only I haven't seen you in a while

And I was thinking that maybe

You were avoiding me

We could sing Happy Phantom just like we used to Read more »

So this is extremely different from what I normally write. It always rambles quite a bit, which I'm aware of. But I kind of like it, and I mean every word. So here it is. :)

The first time I said I wanted to write

I said it to someone I knew

She laughed like it was the funniest thing she'd ever heard

And told me that I'd never make any money if I wanted to be a writer

And that it was a very silly idea

I quietly agreed

(At the time Read more »

Little thing I read during open mic last night. It was fun! :)

Things you must never do:

Never play with the pixies

They like to bite at fingers

And your fingers

Slim, elegant

The hands of a piano player

Are no exception

Never try and grow skeletons from the teeth of a serpent

They may be good warriors

And they may give you something to talk about at parties

But they won’t protect you from

A smile Read more »

 The only slam I performed last night, but I enjoyed doing it more than any poem I've done before, and I got some laughs for the first time as well, so all in all, I don't mind. :)

Welcome to the definitive guide to flying

Without the aid of an airplane, glider, wings

Or any other apparatus

Many believe that there is a way to mentally steel

One’s self for flight

But contrary to the whole wide world

Of Preparation for Flight books Read more »

There are people

People

Friends-people

Friends-people-in-the-walls

They're there, their walls

They talk talk whisper to me

When I'm there

When I'm there

Crying to sleep at night

Crying on my pillow

They talk to me

Speak to me

Speak things to me

The The The best part is

They're just as whole as

Me

I

Me

I

Am

So they don't look at me Read more »

There is a leprechaun standing on my nightstand

He's a little shorter than my pinkie

And I don't know what he's made of

But he's a pale, pleasant shade of green

He has the words WADE ENG stamped on the shamrock he's standing on

And his name is Mad Sweeney

He didn't come with the name Mad Sweeney

I stole that name from American Gods

Because I was reading it at the time

And I thought the name might suit him

Because he's smiling Read more »

Hello, all. This is the result of the creative writing class I'm currently in. We were given a prompt- we were given ten words and had to use at least eight of them in a poem, which we had seven minutes to write. We were not allowed to cross anything out or go back and revise it. I thought I'd put it up here, seeing as I kind of like it.

The silence is a cacophany

An elephant in the room

A stop sign for the thoughts

Of everyone in the ballroom

If we took the silence outside Read more »

I didn't bite my nails all summer

I trimmed them when they got too long

For my obssessive-compulsive sensibilities

And yeah, sometimes I trimmed them too short

But I didn't bite my nails all summer

And during the summer I sometimes wondered why

I figured out why this week

While sitting in English Seminar

As our teacher drowned us in paper handouts

Explaining writing guidlines

The books we're expected to read

Vocab tests

Schedules

What's expected of us Read more »

          Looking back at the summer six days before school starts is like looking at a tapestry that you’ve woven that is almost-but-not-quite-finished-yet. Read more »

We lay in the field together, staring straight at the sky in silence, not even playing the game of trying to spot the shapes in the clouds, as people seem to think couples do. Our hands are intertwined, fingers locked like puzzle pieces.

She speaks first, something unusual.

"I don't love you." She says it simply and my answer is just as plain.

"I know." Read more »

It’s almost quiet here

There are no voices Read more »

So this is it, guys! This is the very last day of My July Challenge. You guys have been... so enthusiastic, more than I could have hoped for. So thanks so much for all your comments and encouragements. Read more »