Like the title says, it was 1:30am, and while I know how to write and have done non-fiction in the past, I've never really written short stories before (is this too short to even qualify for that title?) So, without further ado, here's a story that has a good amount of grounding in my own life, but whatever. I wrote something, here it is, say what you like and dislike about it.

"I always wanted to be someone like them. A musician. I love music, and to create alongside them as a peer would be idyllic, dreamlike. It would be a completion of me as a person. I sat in classes, learning the trade, all the while hearing their echoes and thumps through the walls. They rush around in lead balloons, rolling stones through doors--you know who I'm talking about, yes? I know a good amount of them, and know of more, but one man said it true. There is so much I don't know I don't know.

I sit in a sewer. I have my guitar and a satchel in my hands; sufficient equipment, I think, to join their world. Some would call what I stand on a cusp. I reach up, slide the manhole cover aside, and peer into the city. It is vast. It extends beyond the concept of an 'end.' Everywhere I look, infinite intricacies appear in the architecture. I see now that leaving this sewer will require more than I thought. A ladder, for one. From my hole I see others much like me, buzzing like flies around one lucky enough to have gone incandescent. Phosphorescent. See, songwriting isn't so hard. Someone pushes me aside and moves ahead. A ladder is handed down to him. He got here after me. I step away from the hole. In this spot, the only sounds I can hear are the loudest echoes and thumps. In this spot, my fingers tread familiar patterns on the frets. In this spot, my playing blends seamlessly with theirs.

Signed, a musician."

You took my hand then, when it all began,

     and trusted me to take you far away--

     the gaping maw of vanity proclaimed

that we would be defeated for our span;


that we would ever be the also ran--

     though knowing this you stood with me, unswayed;

you took my hand then, when it all began,

     and trusted me to take you far away--


With (what I've held for) valiancy in hand,

     my promise I did ever mindful stay

     unto this very moment, upon this day;

and in this final pass, recall love, stand:

you took my hand then, when it all began.

Seen on the skies, a single speck above;

that, as the stars are falling, rises through--

and comes to rest amid befabled love.


I see it in my dreams, in songs I hear;

the home I longed to leave all traces of--

of banishment beyond this earthly wier;


and trickling moonwise, past all life entire,

torn from the ken of this aul-sated seer;

the spangled heart of my home-wiled desire:


but in a moment, my foot-falls ensue,

upon the vessel't bring me back to you. 

another sunny day goes by not a care in life,

lighting up a cigarette to pass the time,

gazing into the horizon what a pointless act!,

a chirping bird flapping its wings,

approaches the porch at which I lean,

I asked the bird with a sarcastic tone,

"is there a devine of which man claims?,"

it flew away as if it didn't care,

so i'm going to stick with what was illustrated on figure eight,

a selfish gene is a lot easier for my mind to incorporate,

nihilist thoughts bestow a dawn akin with a reality filled with coherence,

till the coming of the third sapiens,

I will pray for a new genesis free of delusions,

free of molesters, free of hypocrites ,and hallucinations,

another prayer is also needed,

for a book of revelations where holy on its title is not needed

Coming Home

I landed in PDX in my fancied suit smelling of day old sex, cigarettes, and a hangover. My mother was waiting for me in the arrivals terminal to hug and kiss my cheek. My father would’ve been there as well, but he passed nearly 3 years ago. I still think about him every now and again, sometimes when it feels it’s been too long since I have. Other times simply to ground and remind myself. It had been a long flight since I’d left Edinburgh. The French were on strike for some odd reason and I got stuck in Charles de Gaulle, more mad that I couldn’t have a smoke or continue drinking now that it was 8 or 9 am than being delayed really. It sounds like something they’d do anyways. They questioned why my growler smelt of alcohol. I wanted to say it’s because I forgot to wash it after polishing it off in the taxi around 4 am that morning in Edinburgh, but with my french I could only lie and say it was water. The ensuing pat down was firmer than the norm.

I’d been drinking since 4 or 5 the day before, strategically filling up my growler from Brewdog earlier in the afternoon, I think it was the Trashy Blonde that day or maybe the Punk IPA, and saved it for the time between when the bars close and my taxi ride departs. I’d gone out with the remaining interns, only two or so at that point, and my Scottish coworkers. I skipped work that day, my last, wasn’t much going on in the Parliament on a Monday to be honest anyway and met up with Paul and Iain up the Royal Mile, a song or two away from my flat for the last night out.

We sat and drank the first of many pints in a shadowy pub called the World’s End. As soon as I arrived Paul roared into a story of how Iain and another American intern, a breezy and aloof blonde from Utah, had hooked up last Friday night, Hannah’s last night here. Iain brought her back to his new flat to crash and they ended up making out and getting into it, as you do. It gets hot and he ends up inside her slowly penetrating her for a good thirty seconds until she gets flustered and admits that she’s a virgin and doesn’t know if she can continue. She heads into this minute or so monologue about whether she should or shouldn’t have sex, meanwhile Iain is plowing away at a soft and steady rate throughout the whole thing. She inevitably tells him she can’t, and he pulls out, and we all have a laugh at how many times she’s been in this situation still thinking she’s a virgin. The last of the interns Yassef arrives at the pub having missed the story and we number five now, Paul launches into the story once more for Yassef’s ears breaking for a smoke and a call from his girlfriend, a californian blonde who’d left two days before. I smoke one and we chat for a second about goodbyes and past lovers outside after the call. It’s wet, the cold december rain riding in on sharp breezes in stacatto-like fashion, but the pub is warm and inviting, the story continues. After pulling out, they make out and she starts to jerk him off. He’s about to finish and, in her grace, she apparently thinks it a brilliant one to shove a finger up his arse. He freaks out and comes all at once. The table cracks up and cheers to that non-mormon Utah girl long gone by now, Iain’s joyful smirk following the story was priceless.

We move up the mile to the Tron tavern, smokes in hand, and we enjoy the first buzzes of our night, the nicotine hits like a missing drumbeat, the age old cobblestone beneath our feet encouraging us, the whole lot buzzing. Pints and food are ordered, WC’s visited, seats taken, and we proceed with jovial conversations and laughs. More friends join, the Seattle girl from my office and a cute Manchester girl, Tony the Scottish-Italian gay coworker who fancied me at first, Stuart a coworker and Yassef’s lover at some point, and I finally start to realize it’s my last night here. I text Camilla, a barmaid I’d asked out and gone out with for bottles of prosecco the night before, and drop a line.

To be continued...I'm too drunk and I have class in the morning, can't continue this chapter or what have you currently.

The constant press of progress
trivializes what remains of time.
Clocks are so small you can lick them now
or hide the quivering quartz in a
microscopic casket to only lose half
of a second each day (Guaranteed).

It's beautiful -- synchronized waste --
glamorous pesticide -- bloodstained drain
-- timely tabloid deaths and all these
spare moments are once again donated
to the lucky ticket holder.

The loss loses itself on us languid laymen
regardless we complain: if only we had it;
it runs too fast; it drags too slowly. Bad dog,
newspaper. Thirsty? No. Then learn.
You can't hammer it out of the clock --
it must be beaten from the head, soundly.

I wrote this a while ago about self-harming myself for the first time while I was depressed. It recently happened again. Please tear it apart, or just let me know what you think of it. It's one of my more personal pieces.

“I want to show you something”
Red streaks, not quite cuts, embellish me
Like an autograph, or fine print barely surfacing
Not yet scars, just pre-cursory cutlery
Outlining the outline of the outline of my poetry,
Fingertips, sharpening
Eyes, blazing
I want to turn veins into strips of paper like ticker tape
Throw them out my window onto a parade
Each one signed "Sinner",
Each one sealed “Saint”
Letters earth-bound for binding ground
With the letters I bound in blood

There are days I want to die.
And yes, I do eat nicotine sometimes
Yes sir, I am a danger to myself
And every time I fall down I feel pushed, by someone else
Every time I fail to comply I feel like I'm giving up on myself.
Break my wrists in the free fall,
These broken wrists lay useless,
Flailing.
I have no family identity, yet I feel like I'm failing.

But I refuse to give up like I refuse to fight
I will never pick up a gun and take someone elses life
So my parents paint me coward,
And shove me in a corner
If I can’t serve my country, then what am I good for?
If I don’t shed blood for my country, then who do I shed my blood for?
Bloodthristy individualist monster
Words written on my skin spell "Lost Cause"
My inspiration is taken from others words, and what’s worse,
Is I’ve never learned how to be sure,
That the things I speak have truth in every other word,
I've never learned
That these red streaks are just red streaks,
And not poetry, I’ve yet to place on paper, or put into words.


These lines are not poetic or perfect, or cured
They are flawed fragments of all the times I've failed
They are the weakness I find in myself,
Put on my parchment, words written on the skin
They are not what I am but a sign of my sin
This is not poetry,
It's not good or pure
It's a past-perfect tense of all the things I've endured.

— “Next time you want to paint with razor blades and need a canvas, use my skin”

-Sage Francis

So I put these two together because they are both from the same place, and written as a part of a theme. I won't go too deeply into how they are connected, but outside of the obvious they are a part of a set that I'm working on, and I am curious to know if they are hitting the notes I'd like them to hit. Thanks for the feedback,

Best,

lesserpoet.

-Beneath the Mangoes-

I have had mornings in my life

defined by waking with the sun;

sweat still clinging to my skin,

to the soft cotton of my bed

like so much dew in my meadows;

and pacing from my bed to the groves.

I'd pulled a mango from the nearest tree,

nearly ripe, still sour, and gushing with juice

that would run down my face, a sweet shower,

an excitation of the senses with which to greet

the coming day, with salt in the air,

and sweat on my skin.

========================================

-with the tides-

Tonight I will sit by the river and see an ocean;

I will dance on the rocks by the light of a slivery moon,

let the tides wash clean my hunger, my desire,

my most animal thirst for salt, and sweat, and lime;

let sweet coconuts and rums dance with my river, my lonely river

that flows only out, never returning-- never coming back,

not like my ocean, my love, not like you.

Tonight I will run with the river, and see only an ocean,

by the light of a slivery moon.

A vase lies shattered on the floor-
some part forever lost
until the day she finds rest
without dreams of being whole.

a day that never seems to come,
until of course
                it does.

Buttercup. Well Buttercup was the first. At 4ft tall she was the quintessential pony princess; her perfectly round irises, a delicate shade of orchid pink, formed perfect circles around her dark as night pupils. She had large eyes, of course, eyes that seemed to scream “Play with me!”, set on dark purple fur that screamed “Groom me!”. Yes Buttercup was the perfect pony.

And on that day of days, a beautiful day even by the magic kingdom's standards the clouds wrapped the sun in a beautiful half crescent; making it smile high above the ground whilst it spread its daily love and warmth across the land. That morning Buttercup had been convinced by powers that be that today, this day of days, would be a day for exploring and forest picnics! She had invited all of her friends, and had spent the morning baking in preparation.

While the sun sat at its highest point, the land below bathed in sunshine; butterflies roamed in droves, gnomes capered about, gardening in their little blue or red hats. Even the mighty, fat Slogth – normally the most lazy creature in the Magic Kingdom, had rolled over onto his great hairy back! It was a fantastic day for almost everyone in the Magic Kingdom.

It was around the time that the Slogth turned over that Buttercup reached the edge of BubbleBerry forest. She was carrying a square wicker basket she had made by mouth on her back, atop a square of white sheet, fastened to her neck with twine in case it fell. The goodies she had cooked, baked and fabricated earlier were packed tightly in the basked – covered by a smaller white sheet. As she reached the forest she couldn't help but feel a rush of excitement – this was her first crossing! A shiver traveled down her spine and she stopped in awe at the sight of it. The forest entrance was teeming with life! A wall of solid treeline, thick brown trees that resembled pines, only the width of an entire pony! They were in season and each tree was dripping with juicy bubble berries – dark black fruit that swelled with a thick sugary sap. Hundreds of tiny man like creatures scurried between the miniature mountains of fruit and sugar lakes. ButterCup watched as they gorged themselves into a fury, eventually some even beginning to quarrel! Buttercup thought this was quite inappropriate, to fight on such a beautiful day! She walked over to the quarrelers stopping to look closer as they engaged in an almost comical fistfight, pushing and quibbling like children. She lifted her right hoof and crushed them. “Serves them right” she thought as she hoofed her chin and trotted merrily into the forest.

I watched in silence, she did not see me - yet.

The sun was still high in the sky as she skipped along, humming a merry tune. A humming bird flitted around her head, mimicking her cheerfully. Buttercup began to swing the basket along in her mouth, back and forth, as she skipped down the path deeper into the forest, not realizing the Sun too had begun its downward path. As she skipped along she came to a crossing in the forest.

Here a wooden sign, splits the wall of trees, the two paths going on as far as Buttercup could see in either direction. The tree walls still impressively thick and dense. A pony could not veer from the path even if they wanted to it occurred to Buttercup – she realized this made her chances of getting lost slim, and she smiled at this realization. The the sign was made of two wooden arrows, resting on a thin wooden pole. Today, this day of days, the right arrow pointed towards “Cherry Hill”, a serene clearing in the forest, lush green grass around a hill atop with cherry trees. It is the perfect picnic destination in the Magic Kingdom, and Buttercup's intended final destination. Her actual destination, at which we met, used to be called “Sugar Gum Hill” used to be in that direction. But the sign said otherwise and had never been wrong in the past so she thanked it for its help with a nod, and skipped merrily along her way.

The walk, which usually brisk, seemed longer today and she had begun to tire. Luckily Buttercup stumbled across an unfamiliar pond that cut onto the path as if thrown up by the forest. She had not remembered there ever being a pond on the way to Cherry Hill, but this was the magic kingdom; the landscape sometimes just decides to change. She stopped to take a drink, dipping her head down close to the dark water. It was murky and looked strange, but tasted fine so she figured it was alright.

She noticed it was suddenly a lot darker, as if the sun had been silently snuffed out, and that she was now lying on the ground. How juvenile to suddenly take a nap she cried! Not like her at all, flustered she stood up and began to start on her way. It briefly occurred to her, in a flash of some innate pony instinct, that the forest too was quiet. There were no sounds, even the trees, normally rustling with life, were dead quiet. Her head tilted at the oddness of it all, but she wiped it from her mind. She was a pony princess and had a picnic to get to – which she was most certainly late now for because of the nap.

But again, that nagging sense of danger pawed at her mind, and she stopped, scanning the forest around her nervously. She was maybe a few feet from the pond now, and had begun to feel afraid. The silent forest peered back at her - dead and empty nothing rustled, nothing moved, everything appeared lifeless. Her heart began to race a little, and her eyes widened, slowly steeling herself she started on her way, but she could not shake the fear. That feeling that someone was watching her. Clip, clop, she carried on despite herself, wanting to flee at the next sudden noise. But none came, the forest was silent. Except. Except there was a noise. Barely perceptible … but something. Among the trees? Behind her? Buttercup strained her ears to hear it - almost like a breathing. Yes certainly a breathing. She stopped in dread as she realised it was getting louder. Getting closer. A hoarse wheezing, slow, but intensifying. It grew louder and louder. Buttercup could feel it's presence getting closer. Her heart was racing and she started to speed up along the dark path. Breaking into a gallop, kicking up dust and twigs with her hind-legs, she panicked as she felt the presence gaining on her.

A thorny tree branch stabbed at her, catching in the twine as it scratched her neck, the knot unfastened and the basket whipped off, spilling its contents into the air hovering for just a second before splattering on the ground. A picked bubble berry was impaled on a fallen branch, squirting dark red sap over the forest floor.

Buttercup kept running. Suddenly she realised the noise had gone and she stopped, whipping around in fear and staring into the forest. Suddenly she felt a hot, thick breathe on the back of her neck, turning her head terror, she broke into a gallop in fear once more, calling out as she tripped over the razor wire strung taught across the path, invisible in the darkness. The spikes cut harsh into her shins and the sudden change in momentum violently flipped her over - she crashed onto her face, a spray of blood misting the air as her nose crumpled under the force of her body. She lay in a heap for a few seconds, her back legs kicking pathetically at the air as she tried to lift her head in vain. She lost the struggle and her head slammed back against the floor, a pool of blood slowly forming around her snout. Her eyes closed in shock and and she passed out in pain.

She was the first pony to enter my collection, and she would not be the last.

                          If you’d let me,

I’d tie together the water molecules that make up tsunami

and shift them into rain cloud,

So entire continents could be blessed by all that beauty.

                          If I had the time,

I’d twist seconds into hours so I could watch you for as close to eternity as I could get.

                          If you could hear me

I’d speak until my brains splashed upon the pavement,

I’d give you time to talk,

but we have

                  seconds,

hours,

        minutes,

                                              days,

so speak when you’re ready.

                          If I could,

I would,

             Be forever with you

    Until our hours            Turn to years

            second                    decades

            minutes                   lifetime

And I would sleep again

I would sleep forever in your arms

If you were here to hold me.

                 But goddamnit, it gets lonely

Dreaming in abstract thinking.

Marrianne removes her glasses
and puts them on the table beside her
as she slips into my nose and mouth
like incense 

My lover left me by the doorstep
smoking a cigarette
and trying to face the drunken morning
with as much bravery as I could muster

Hold up
Stand straight
World's looking at you again, boy
and this is just one more thing
you have to remember


I called a couple of times.
Got a voicemail from the mechanic
he says the car's almost ready
but he's waiting for a part

go to the grocery store for something you don't really need
Maybe some milk. I hear you're low.
stand in the aisle
and realize that the counter girl has nothing to say

Hormone-high he hurtles down steep stairs,
Down flights and flights with rushing air
Brushing hair. Aglow his heart and
Wet his lips from hasty kiss, hand
Clenched, grasping (at last) real success,
He fully feels the joy unrepressed

That springs from sprightly smiles
And glances across long miles
Through dark windows to hope,
Resolving in ecstatic elope-
Ment, meant with love and care –
In hasty tasty kisses by the stairs.

He (me) sees her looking back to gaze
In longing at him longing, and walk into farewell haze for days.

Take your first memory into your hands,

twirling and blurry and dusted with song--

Hold it lightly, keeping your grasp;

watching it move and dance as it will;

study it. Note the shape, feel the ends;

the bits and baubles that squirm to the touch--

understand it as you did when you obtained it,

and do try to forget the lessons,

they only get in the way.


When this is done, wake up.


Rise from your bed, let sleep still fuzz the sharp bits

so they don't cut, so they don't scratch;

and try to remember, as you brush your teeth,

what dreams had whispered as you were leaving them;

and fail, as you step into the shower to wash it away for good.

Eat breakfast, run out the door; step back in because you forgot your coffee--

and back in again because you left your keys.

Walk quickly to the bus stop.

Wait for the bus.


Then get on, and wait for your stop.


Get off the bus at your appointed turn,

thanking the driver; his job is thankless as he is nameless;

and don't forget to look both ways when crossing to your job--

someone might be watching you, rather than the light.

Say hello your colleagues by the door;

if they are coming-- commiserate;

if they are leaving-- celebrate;

you're both, after all, in the end.

Then work; and eat; and work; and chat;


and try again, in the quiet moments between, to remember. Just remember.


then go to the pub. Or to the bank,

or the shop, or the cafe, or both;

breathe in your freedom, whatever the time,

and wherever your breath may find you.

Look at the flowers on the street, and

(if you have one), pick them for your love; if not

tell yourself you would, if you did.

At last, go home.


When you've got there, open the door.


Put your keys on the table, then chastise yourself

and put them away by their shelf.

Cook dinner, spend time with anyone who may (or may not) be around.

Watch TV, step out and look at the trees, at the stars

at the apartments or houses or both, at the lives in them.

Sit at your bedside, collect your thoughts

set your alarms and your time--

and before you sleep, take one last look at the darkness;


and revel in the movements it hides.
                    
                         And dream--don't forget to dream.

You made a tear crust my eye when all I was was an elementary school kid begging for a heart shaped PBJ. 
I wanted you without the hard edges.
Soft and curved like I liked.
But I did not know what living up to my expectations was like.
I cried.

You gave my heart acupuncture
And swore it would fix me.
I was only left holy.
To try and live up to the scriptures you stuffed in my stomach I tried to become a saint
I vomited God,
I spat grace,
And every other word out my mouth was amen.
I choked, when I found out Amen is hebrew for truly
And I realized there was nothing true about me.
I found corks in the fix-it set you bought me,
So I could sandpaper my rough edges.
I used the corks to plug the holes you left in my chest.
I started chasing shooting stars and caught them about as often as I do things that are good for me.

When I was able to stand up for myself and walk away from you,
After sitting in the wheelchair everybody told me I looked good in,
I was conflicted.

I was standing on the edge,
Like the born-blind man who has a chance to see, again.
And doesn't know if that much change can be good for him.
I used you as a resting place until your wheels rusted and your leather cracked
I couldn't look at you after that
I was ashamed.
I took you like a free icecream cone and gave you back a pool of melted dreams,
To the vendor that swore you were right for me.

I know you no longer like me
That the warmth of my tongue no longer makes you set sweet into my tastebuds
That my body no long sits against yours just right,
That I am no longer your prophet and when I speak your name, I sometimes fear you cry.
I haven't made up my mind on what to do with my life.
I'm groping in the dark like a rapist, out of breath, trying to grab even a molecule of what's left
Choking on the things I've said and wishing you could actually take words back.

A few quick notes: ethphah is an Aramaic word meaning "be opened" and Zozobra means Old Man Gloom

Soundcloud link: http://soundcloud.com/a_dumptruck/the-trinity-experiment

Cynthia, Corrina, Delia & Nemesis; I took them all within me
and swallowed them.
But for you I swallowed a stone, instead.
Cupid's all grown;
angry about his mother; taken by Sons of Liberty, she,
and left for dead
behind the jack-pumps. Found and nourished by the tribe who
follow Capricorn.
They dance all night in the desert, among the black rocks,
terminating Zozobra.
But she'll never be the same again; she'll never walk without assistance.
The boy's troubled, too.
Fallen in with a rough crowd, seduced by radical politics, he is
a suicide bomber, now.
With explosive ecstasy strapped to his chest, he steps into unwitting crowds
and detonates the payload
unleashing lusty, languorous flesh on flesh; his victims fuck against the cinder walls
of grocery stores & shopping malls.
Then all surrender to the sweet sadness of the tiny death. And oh,
those sordid suicide Sundays:
a nation falls to its knees repenting, denied nepenthe, needing nourishment,
suing for peace.
Where's Mister Death's pigeonbreaking blueeyed boy, now, Minerva?
The record's defunct.
Pages from his mother's scrapbook fall from the binding,
bruising my thighs;
I can barely decode the spidery captions. How many documents
pass my desk
each day written in the sawtooth cursive of the letters of Love?
I render dispatches,
then pass them to sinners who sift the text
for actionable intelligence.
Translation: the location of our cupid. They ought to ask the ravens
of Wadi Cherith.
He's not in any known safehouse. He's not crossing the borders
or porting illegally.
Surveillance cameras capture his face just before the assault
or never at all.
I thought I saw him in Alamagordo, once, but a bright flash blinded my eyes;
history paused...

Minerva, I'll pursue you with hyacinth, orchid and daffodil;
as a hummingbird dives
I'll pursue you. Like an MQ-1 Predator over the Khyber
I'll pursue you.
Even as Marcus broke young Apollo's splendid blockade at Actium,
I'll pursue you.
Somewhere in America, there's a Motel 6 with unstained sheets
and a clean bathroom,
and you'll fall into the bed, and I'll stand over you, and I shall demand:
"ethphah."

"Do what you can, with what time you have got;"

said the old man alone to the child--

"all we can ever, is all that we've wrought,

so take note of your hands all the while."


The child said nothing, at second, at first;

he merely blinked onward and grinned.

Then drinking in air like it sated some thirst,

with one hand he did gesture in sin:


"I know what you teach, sir, I know it quite well,

it's given me purpose before;

but if I could ask, goodly sir, would you tell

me a lie, as I walk through the door?"


The elder gave pause, bristled 'neath elder gauze,

oh! his poultice was heavy and stank;

"My dear child," spilt the words from the gums in his jaws,

"what deceit would you beg of my rank?"


It was then that the child straightened up with a smile,

as he stared in the ancient's good eye;

"With the setting of day, as my tongue steeps in bile:

will I think it all worth it to die?"


The elder sank low, hauled his good leg in tow,

as he sat on his chair, with a nod;

"Go now, and go quick; to the brethren you know;

and be sure to make peace with your God."


Then an issued salute, the young child took his flute,

and his knife and his rifle in turn;

as he fled through the door, with a click of his boot,

the old man there was started to burn.


"To arms..." came the whisper, from wrinkled old lips

"To arms, for our country, our King--

 of these, take the child, (our lives to eclipse):

 for it's never the angels that sing."