Back from Ohio
Things left in the past
Unfulfilled not-quite-expectations
I am on the verge
of not sure about
releif or disappointment
My apartment is returning to
pseudo-comfort
worried about mirroring in this
Not bummed about anything
which is a mild surprise
considering unmet goals
Pleased with my car and
other mundane aspects of the trip
like money and food
I guess there’s always
a time when you say,
“okay, we’re done.”
Moments flash under my eyelids
Brighter than sun, darker than blacklights
Whorish memories claw
up from where I’ve imprisoned them
to glory in the depression and doubt.
I went to those parties
for the first two times
for women that I wanted to really, really know.
What a crushing sensation
adam’s apple up under my jaw
I have a will, the will of a leader
and the charisma to back it
every day I see people who would follow me
if I’d let them
And I feel the crumbling inside
for so many women.
Where is the switch that does this?
How can I keep my strength and
keep my passion?
The dull growl won’t leave the back of my head
I keep spotting
female
and I want like hunger
desire, crave, fiend, these arent good enough
Prowling the perimeter
of need
beat of the track thumping my sternum
I swear to the gods
woman
will not defeat me
I will be satiated
I grind my teeth.
have I lost myself in another person?
Am I fully me with this question pounding in my
head?
I hated the feeling of jumping when she
came up behind me.
She used to melt into my embrace, and I used
to let it happen.
I know that I have strength.
Why do I hold on to weakness?
So much power is wasted in fear.
Oh, dear gods, at what cost, fame? His poem had been so much of exactly what the art fag had wanted. One hundred and ten per cent.
Brutal, biting, vicious words contrasted at every turn with a mockery of kindness and love. Fluid motions grated against stasis. Exactly what was sought after was lost, leaving an act of bestowing an eternity as empty, hollow, and undeserving as Joshua felt. They had loved it, and they had loved him.
They had hated Lord Welcomb. They had mocked him and stripped him of the status that was oh-so-prized in this bloody society. Lord Welcomb had been visibly agitated, a feat never before accomplished in the “polite” society of the Kindred. And that’s all that had happened in public.
It would take over a week for his body to heal from the beating he had received. And Joshua was quite good at healing. It was, at least, something to take his mind off of his punishment. That would take much, much longer to heal. Exile from London. Exile! He was sent to the American Colonies in 2000, to a city that had just been claimed in war. As a state capitol, this built-on-swampland poor excuse for a city was supposedly strategically important. He was being sent to meet ancillae representatives from the other families. They would pick a leader, and hold the city.
The place was going to be a bloody shit-hole, and he knew it.
“I am the new way to go/
I am the wave of the future.”
Without something to do this place feels boring
and anasthetic
Grab a notepad and a pen and suddenly
good music is playing
It improves the feel and noise of the
place immensely
There are few subjects for people-watching
always the regulars
I like this music.
No room for pretentiousness at a goth night,
you know.
We’re all here to make fun of ourselves.
What a noble gesture
What a grand acceptance of the ridiculous
nature of people.
In the end, I’m not sure if it’s even
more pretentious.
Maybe we’ll talk instead of spar, he
and I.
Dragon soared through the skies and through time. This was perfectly natural, and in no way strange to him. Well, the “him” that he was at the moment.
He knew he was going back, but not too far. The words “Aqua Net” and “Bad Music” flashed from somewhere in his head, back where he was still human. Dragon shook his head and snarled. The shadow that was calling to him was what was important. The wooden horse needed to be part of the Shadow, as he was. It would become brethren. Clutch-mate.
Dragon bellowed again, softly landing in the grass. He looked around him, sniffing and tasting the air. Yes, this was the place. The air tasted like grease and gasoline and human. It was this strong in the trees, it would have been overpowering outside of them. He could see the square stone towers, and the light from inside them. They almost drowned out the stars… but it was not his place to punish them. Not today.
He positioned the carousel horse in the proper place, and peered carefully into the shadows. He could see what was to be slowly emerging from them. The Carnival would live here for a little while. He could hear the soft calliope music begin. Now was the time for ritual.
Dragon hefted his war-hammer high and roared defiantly at the stars. He struck the ground below him with all his might and all his will. The hammer began to glow… first red, then blue, then white-hot… wisps of smoke and flame shot out in six directions, then rose to greet the sky. The flames suddenly extinguished, and a twisted version of a carousel sat in their place. The new horse was there, as perfect as it had been before the flame, but in every other spot were the most finely wrought statues of mythical creatures both remembered and forgotten. Some of wood, some of brass, some seemingly of gold. The platform of the carousel seemed to be made of the very granite that was the bedrock of the park. The canopy seemed to be made of intertwined ivy and rose vines, trailing down both flowers and thorns. The carousel began to turn and emit the strangest song… it conjured images of dancing around a fire at a tribal gathering, fighting wars with those who do not respect, and coming of age in a society that knew what that meant.
Dragon nodded his wedge-shaped head in satisfaction at the carousel. He left it to survey the other rides that seemed to be growing out of the ground and the trees themselves. He would have to make sure that the technology-magic was playing as big of a part as the earth-magic. Peh. Humans.
There are these old men, all conversing
and gesticulating at a table;
They remind me of aging mafia.
They remind me of aging us.
One of them is our old landlord from
THE LAIR
He stopped by to see how his customers
like their coffee.
He doesn’t remember the purple-haired
fat boy in a suit (double-breasted)
from the court room.
Of course, he always used to call me Aaron.
That pissed me off
I wonder what miscreants and high society
I’ll run in to and
bring together
in the next town I plant my roots in.
Not town.
City.
I wonder what it looks like;
that mark I left on this place.