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Yes, a poem constructed entirely out of spam email lines. This was mostly an experiment to see if I could construct something coherent without changing anything but punctuation. Also to see if that coherent thing was able to not involve penises at all. I kind of like it. It's pretty gimmicky, but has a surprisingly neat cadence to it. I also like all the not-quite-right english; it preserves the tone nicely.

hmmmmmmmm

Well, I wrote this the night before I shipped out to Toronto, and I feel bad about still not writing or posting anything since this started, so I'm digging in the vaults again. Basically I was watching plane crash videos all night long because I have some weird, insane fear of flight that I didn't even have 3 years ago the last time I flew. And around 4am when I was still watching videos, I started watching atomic bomb explosions and various street and apartment level angles of the 9/11 attacks, and then when I felt totally defeated by the world, I threw this down and passed out. So please don't try to take anything from it, unless you can. Now to read all the stuff I missed.

“I want you to tell me you love me; can I feel your lungs against my chest? Will your lips move? For me, like that?”

She held herself against the sky, imperfections blazing. She could crumble at any moment but I wouldn’t trade her for the world. My center.

“I feel like I’m just spinning away; my hands are off and I still know what it feels like. But I can’t get back there. I’m just…too…”

Scarlet.

“I’m here crying in the dark, I’m half lonely and three fans are rotating comments across my face. I want you to tell me you love me, and I’ll forget. Don’t whisper, I’ll forget.”

I don’t see the streets often; each line was a plan. Each pane of glass was an idea. I said, “This is all so much. This is all of it.”

“Don’t ever leave me; you know what I like, you are my prescription. I want you, too. Tell me you love me. How can I feel that? Where…”

The tree line blinked, the benches stared. It was hot; it was gone. It – it – it. The gaze asked the screen for “answers?”

“Just look. Just see.”

Turquoise.

“And we were all the same again.”

Introductory Interlude

Hey guys, I've been toying around with writing a Zombie Doomsday novel in Canterbury style. Sort of like Dan Simmon's "Hyperion Cantos" if you have any experience with it (you definitely should). I plan on making it from two main characters points of views: one is sort of a high-school drop-out guy working a dead-end job who likes to screw around and the other is from his best friend's perspective who was originally all about making money (going into business). I'm sure you can all guess whose perspective this is from. Its not well-written and I'm still not sure what tense I want to write in; I sort of feel like attempting second-person, but with how many characters there will be it'll probably have to be third. Just let me know what you think and I'll iron the shit out of it later.


Wishing I was curled into your plank of human flesh, I miss the only refuge I had from all the fears I ever held in the world.

I’m dealing with so much out here. I passed a guy in the street the other day who tried to hand me a pamphlet to let me know about a Watchtower. I refused to take it and the guy got mad. Imagine that, just walking down the street and I can’t help but piss someone off. Next thing I know I’m mad and I say some things and all of a sudden I’ve got half a block pissed at me.

I just don’t know where to turn.

It’s gotten so you mind your own business and you’re pissing off half a block and then you’re at work and everyone’s pissing you off, just because as long as there’s that sense that you HAVE to be there you’ll hate it. It’s not even that I hate my job, I like it.

I know you’ve always hated it.

It’s just… its an obligation. It was a place I had to be and I grew resentful of that.

Like you grew resentful of me.

I guess it doesn’t matter much anymore. You’re dead and the only refuge ever offered to me has been taken from me twice. You told me you were happy and you lied.

And when that thing bit your throat off and I screamed and that lady screamed after me, so it went after he and I ran and I ran, well…

I get it, I’m rambling. I’m also sweating. But not dead. That makes me one of the few now.

Jesus, I could use a joint.