ambiguouspuzuma

[ambiguouspuzuma]

surgery

you made my murder quite discreet. you didn’t tear my chest apart, but clinical, your scalpel neat, excised a sliver of my heart.

leaving me conscious was more cruel; many would rather die than grieve, and mine is the worst fate of all to stay behind after you leave.

the first bite should have made me shy, developed my immune response, for being left is amplified by those who leave us more than once.

we carry the capricious close; we dwell upon the ones who stray. the people who stay with us most are often those who drift away.

our lives are most severely stained not by those stalwart in their bonds, but those who come now and again and just as frequently abscond.

a needle in a piece of cloth endlessly weaving in and out. you play me like that, on and off, until all that I know is doubt.

your wound is neat, your stitches rough. you've left me as a nervous wreck. but held intact, just whole enough for you to keep me still in check.

you've killed me by a thousand cuts. you didn't need my ribcage spread when you could simply break my trust by dipping in and out instead.

#poem #poetry #escapril

[ambiguouspuzuma]

the absolute limit

sometimes it feels that you and I are being stretched to breaking point.

our wallpaper peels from bricks ruined by the love hearts we etched into fragile joints.

underneath it reveals, hidden from human eyes, the future we once sketched with a home to anoint.

signed in blood long since congealed, stale promises euthanised, faithful hearts failed by their flesh, that fundamental disjoint.

perhaps doom was part of our deal. we pledged to ride and do and die, but it was always too far-fetched; now we can only disappoint.

that disconnect never seems to heal. our fissures just grow wider with time. our attempts to bridge them overstretched until we no longer fit together at all.

#poem #poetry #write a poem that flows nicely? #no #write a poem which sounds awful #but in a way that reflects the discordance of its topic #get streeeeetttched #escapril

[ambiguouspuzuma]

faun

the debutant takes to the floor like nothing I have seen before, with goat-like legs but human torso, human muscles, only more so, homespun clothes and cloven hooves, a tail that flickers as he moves, cheeks like a rose, replete with thorns in a small pair of twisted horns, but dances in my empty hall as if it's him who owns it all and I'm the one who's out of place, with ruffled hair and reddened face, all of a sudden ill-at-ease and swaying on unsteady knees. he is the monster. nonetheless, as stray hairs fall over my dress, watching the swirl of mismatched limbs he has me fauning over him.

#poem #poetry #a bonus poem for you today

[ambiguouspuzuma]

Some of artist Anna Sim's work really gives me Piranesi vibes - I LOVE IT (Susanna Clarke's book and Anna Sim's paintings of stairs and halls and vestibules!)

[ambiguouspuzuma]

Humanity has finally reached the stars and found out why no one had contacted us. The universe is in a sad state. As such, Doctors without Borders, Red Cross, and many othe charities go intergalactic.

#Doctors Without Gravity #other people's writing

[ambiguouspuzuma]

modernity

the chippy offers discount scran, yesterday's cuts in last week's news, whilst humming cabinets of cans, proffer refrigerated booze.

the counter helps him count his pence exchanging copper coins for gold: one cod and chips at great expense, a can of something cheap and cold.

he takes his polystyrene loot back to the awning where he begs, imploring from the passing suits some surplus for a pickled egg.

but no-one stops to meet his gaze; none of them have the change to spare. all money's plastic nowadays with no way left to gift his share.

he eyes the sheets beneath the news and wishes them less soaked in grease, but beggars aren't allowed to choose or sleep in blankets lined with fleece.

he used to have a fresh supply; broad sheets enough to line a bed. the suits used to provide them dry, discarded to the ground once read.

but they don't buy them anymore, neither the broadsheets nor the rest; no longer leave them on the floor for him to form that makeshift nest.

he used to make a living here when news and cash were things to hold, on tabloids, bargain fish and beer, before that life was bought and sold.

so though his broken lips are stung by chips bathed in vinegar baste, even without salt on his tongue the world would hold a bitter taste.

#poem #poetry #escapril

[ambiguouspuzuma]

dark secret

my darling's fearless, so she boasts. she's not afraid of vengeful ghosts or creatures creeping from the mist or many things that don't exist.

she doesn't like to get on boats but that's a sickness, as she notes, just like the others on the list of things she can't as well resist.

not that there's shame in fear of sharks just like her caution of the dark; it's not that shadows give her fright, only the things they keep from sight.

she'll greet the strangers in the park and meet the gaze of dogs that bark untroubled by their threatened bite so long as leads are tethered tight.

out of the sea, she doesn't fret whilst others worry to get wet; on swimming trips she's known to thrive as long as they don't make her dive.

and it's not fear that makes her sweat when challenged by such major threats as swarming bees around their hive; it's just her instincts to survive.

just like the thunder of the swarm it's wise to hide away from storms or likewise rumbling motorbikes in case of sudden lightning strikes.

a fear of dentists is the norm, but not for her, so I'm informed; she simply hates their metal spikes as one of her astute dislikes.

she isn't fond of modelled clay, and hates Wallace and Gromit, say, whilst always letting vomit spout at just the scent of Brussels sprouts.

and if one spider creeps her way she'll then be wracked with fear all day. she's brave, or something thereabouts, save for the things that creep her out.

#poem #poetry #escapril

[ambiguouspuzuma]

unexpected transmission

the choirboys sing in dead languages, but, like the blackbird in the maple, I understand exactly what they mean.

#“but today's poem is too short” #oh #you mean UNEXPECTEDLY short? #gotcha #poem #poetry

[ambiguouspuzuma]

simulation

she dressed, if not quite to impress, to go unnoticed, more or less. in simple treasures, barest bones, the studs of semi-precious stones, with middling silver filigree and gilding of the last degree, her diamonds still encased in rough, her linings just velvet enough, and though much of it counterfeit it passed just well enough to fit amongst the nobles gathered there with one or two appraising stares though they were able to afford to dress as walking dragon hoards, but most important, as a thief, was how she'd dressed up underneath, with pouches underneath her skirts to store the buttons from their shirts and cufflinks snatched at any chance to join each suitor in the dance, whilst all the earrings that she took when asking for a closer look were hidden swiftly up her sleeves as if in fear of other thieves, although she knew the greater threat was having had her hunger whet and not wanting to leave the ball until she'd fully fleeced them all; the taste of such low-hanging fruit addicted her to their pursuit wanting to strip each robe and belt so they could feel how hardship felt, and feeling a failure with less than full regalia and dress as if unfinished with the theft until her marks had nothing left, and asking what else they had stored and what it cost to make a lord or how much she would have to steal to make her simulation real.

#poem #poetry #escapril

[ambiguouspuzuma]

desire

I saw a robin today. the sun was out, and so were the birds. jackdaws. blackbirds. blue tits. others. but robins too.

he pecked at the crumbs around my shoes and my thoughts returned to December, when I would hang his likeness in my home, on a card, and sing songs in his honour. but now it is April and he is a stranger at my feet.

robins are sedentary birds; all weather friends. we venerate them in winter, not because they are anything more, still the same small ball of feathers, curios and brave, but because our options are less. the other birds fly south, and we turn, lonely, to the redbreast in the snow.

the trees are the same, but green against that white. evergreen. spruces and firs and pines each just as lush in summer heat, but unappreciated, unremarkable; until the others are gone. we bring them into our homes, draped in baubles and tinsel and lights for their company, their rich, winter beauty, which doesn't earn a second glance in spring. in April, the other trees have blossom. flowers. decoration of their own.

this is what I am to you, I think. a December comfort. you turn to me when others fade, a hearth to warm the bleak midwinter of your heart. you kindle me to fill that void, adorn me with desperate love, hold me up as more than the simple person underneath. so that, come the warm light of spring, when the air is filled with petals and birdsong, I can only disappoint. in a world of options, I am easy to discard, less visible in sunshine than in shadow, though standing by you just the same. but your loneliness is gone, and mine can wait until that winter next returns, and I might be worthwhile wanting once again.

I am used to shivering in the warm.

#poem #poetry #escapril

[ambiguouspuzuma]

the problem of death

it's the exhaustion that kills you.

it's not the endless hammer blows, the blackened eyes and broken nose, the fists that rain down on your skull, but how its inner workings dull; the way your focus starts to drift, your own arms too heavy to lift, all of your motivation bled, as you sink to the river bed. you'll find an armoury down there, the arsenal we used to share, its water poisoned by the lead of toxic arguments long dead, but often dredged up from the past so each new fight echoes the last, raking the muck of ancient rains to fashion blades from our remains.

why don't we do this anymore?

that was before we drank our fill; no trawling since we lost the will. and entered an uneasy truce; no warring now, for what's the use? you'll never change. I'll never learn. the past remains for us to churn but we now scrape its bowels to find aggression of a passive kind; a gun brandished with safety catch, a deathly silent shouting match. and so our unused muscles soften with outbursts rare but love less often, and lose even the strength to grieve what came before this gardening leave: just restless days but restful nights. the passion gone. no will to fight.

why do we do this anymore?

#poem #poetry #escapril

[ambiguouspuzuma]

a Compilation

these r the only nanowrimo excerpts ur gonna get for the time being lmao

#kai is committed to the bit #pretty bold for a guy whose full name is Kaiser Wilhelm II #other people's writing

[ambiguouspuzuma]

#i love this#such a great tale of love

Thanks!

what's the truth

she wears strings of forget-me-nots she walks as one entranced she takes me to secluded spots and leads me in the dance.

I've known Isla since we were tots; we've danced some twenty years. our childhood games I always lost; her comfort through my fears.

I've heard the tales of cradle swaps, the changelings in our midst; the fae slipped in our baby's cots and raised amongst our kids.

I'm not too blind to join the dots; I know just what she is. the leopard may not change her spots, but she was always this.

she's more at home out in our copse, naming the herbs and trees. but though she fosters wilder crops she's most at home with me.

a bark hosts insects as it rots; she tells me with a glance that earwigs prefer apricots when they're given the chance.

her hands are rough, but not her touch, her nails don't leave a scar. she may not have had soft things much but still knows what they are.

for although I may know the what I also know the who. and what's the truth when lips have got such better things to do.

she drapes me in forget-me-nots. she holds me as we sway. can she be trusted? maybe not. I love her anyway.

#I went a little more ambitious with the rhyme scheme here so not as happy about some of the word choices #does anyone say 'tots'

[ambiguouspuzuma]

#she may not have had soft things much / but still knows what they are#!!!!!#ooooh I love this

Thank you! Weirdly this one was inspired by somehow finding myself on the Wikipedia page for earwigs...

what's the truth

she wears strings of forget-me-nots she walks as one entranced she takes me to secluded spots and leads me in the dance.

I've known Isla since we were tots; we've danced some twenty years. our childhood games I always lost; her comfort through my fears.

I've heard the tales of cradle swaps, the changelings in our midst; the fae slipped in our baby's cots and raised amongst our kids.

I'm not too blind to join the dots; I know just what she is. the leopard may not change her spots, but she was always this.

she's more at home out in our copse, naming the herbs and trees. but though she fosters wilder crops she's most at home with me.

a bark hosts insects as it rots; she tells me with a glance that earwigs prefer apricots when they're given the chance.

her hands are rough, but not her touch, her nails don't leave a scar. she may not have had soft things much but still knows what they are.

for although I may know the what I also know the who. and what's the truth when lips have got such better things to do.

she drapes me in forget-me-nots. she holds me as we sway. can she be trusted? maybe not. I love her anyway.

[ambiguouspuzuma]

#You have been killing it lately#really enjoying these

Thank you! I am now back from travelling so should be putting a little bit more time in (and able to format them correctly) so hopefully can get back to this kind of level.

portrait

he asked to be immortalised, preserved for evermore in paint. he had barely turned twenty-five but recently observed the taint of time's grey fingers on his skin; its smudges underneath his eyes. a forehead crumpled, paper thin, as if perpetually surprised.

this was no canvas for the wall. he hated portraits in that way; a way of measuring his fall, flesh left to wither and decay whilst paint preserved him as before. a benchmark of forsaken youth, held up as a comparator whilst mirrors showed the brutal truth.

he offered himself as the frame, for paint directly on his face; for portraits always look the same, never a hair brushed out of place. he hired a painter for six weeks then learnt to apply it himself; a face he daubed across his cheeks from pots kept on his bathroom shelf.

he brushed his skin with sacred oils, embalmed in rouge and rose and jaune, and wore his hair in russet coils, each one anointed so they shone. the smallest detail was arranged, the precise place, the exact hue. a ritual that never changed; as if he'd live forever too.

but powder paint around his eyes, and false veneers for his teeth, could only manage to disguise cracks in the canvas underneath. beneath painted sarcophagi even the pharaohs fade to dust. there is no stilling that demise once mould sets in beneath the crust.

he didn't last for very long with all that lead daubed on his face; a fear of ageing had been wrong compared to what came in its place. for wishing to stay twenty-five, frozen in time, everything fixed, can simply mean not to survive to ever witness twenty-six.

his body was quick to decay only the mask atop remained; even the maggots kept away from skin so consummately stained. his face was perfectly preserved; a death mask to hang on the wall. peeled off as art to be observed; a simple portrait after all.

[ambiguouspuzuma]

#THIS IS SO GOOF I LOVE THIS OP#such an interesting way to build a story too i am always amazed when people pull it off

Thank you - all of my stories are goofy, but some are more goofy than others.

Out of the Loop

Journal entry 542 15th June 2022

Well, it certainly wasn't the ideal start to a working day. It turns out that the storm last night has torn some panels from the fence, so that's something I'll need to get fixed, no doubt at great expense. Judging from the drive to work, there's going to be a waiting list. The roads were awful, too, traffic stretched as far as the eye could see, just because some trees had fallen down as well. At least work was straightforward, although I had to show Jonas how to do his job again. The same stuff I told him just a few months ago. Brain like a sieve, that guy, honestly.

Journal entry 542 15th June 2022

I don't really know how to say this, but Jonas has finally snapped. I was just making my mid-morning coffee when he cornered me in the kitchen and started rambling some absolute nonsense, even worse than his usual barrage of stupid work questions. It's not like I was having the ideal start to my day as it was - it turns out that the storm last night has done for some of the fence panels, so that's a direct hit to my savings, and I had to spend an hour in traffic because it decided to take out some trees on the way. With all that stress going on, I was really hoping for a straightforward day at the office.

I managed to excuse myself and ignored him when we were back at our desk, but then later on I hear he's been escorted from the building because he kept prodding people and shouting. Prodding! I've always joked that he's a few panels short of a fence himself, but I always thought he was just a bit scatterbrained, not... whatever this is. I actually thought he might be showing signs of improvement when I came in this morning, remembering stuff I taught him a few months ago without needing his usual reminder, but I guess a few hours of competency was all that bizarre mind of his could take. I wonder what will happen to him now?

Journal entry 542 15th June 2022

I have no idea how to write this entry. I don't really have the words to do it justice, so I guess I'll just be frank and state the facts.

Jonas is dead. He didn't show up for work this morning, and we assumed it must have been because of the storm last night - I was delayed in traffic for a fallen tree, and the garden fence is in tatters, so plenty of reasons he might have had to stay home or not been able to make it in - but then someone said he'd been found dead.

Even then we guessed it must have been a fallen roof tile, a tragic casualty of the storm, but the truth turned out to be even worse. He took his own life. They won't say how, but I don't think I actually want to know. How long have we shared a desk now? I has to be the best part of a year. I won't pretend that we always got on, and I did find him frustrating at times, but this is horrible. I would never have wanted this for him.

It's awful to think that I used to make jokes about his intelligence, his sanity, and all the while he was actually struggling with real problems. He needed support, not my mockery. Did he know how I felt? Was that a reason that he did what he did? If that's the case, I don't think that I'll ever forgive myself, but I suppose that all that I can do now is try to be a better person in the future. It goes without saying that I'll never speak ill of Jonas again.

Journal entry 542 15th June 2022

God, that imbecile Jonas has been creeping me out all day. Having a moron for a desk buddy is hard enough when he's focusing on work, but today he seems to be trying out a new party trick: guessing what I'm about to say before I say it. I tried my best not to encourage him, playing down the accuracy, but he was actually getting scarily close. Sometimes almost word for word. I don't know how he was doing it, but I didn't like it at all.

He actually said that he'd been to the future, lived this day before, something like that, so he knew what I was going to say, but that was definitely the weaker part of the whole act. If he's training to be one of those amateur magicians, he really needs to work on his patter. Probably best to focus on guessing cards and facts and things, too, rather than jumping in to finish every sentence. Even children must find that annoying.

Then of course I have to come home to missing fence panels, a legacy of last night's storm (which also doubled the length of my commute, thanks to some fallen trees), but I've got no energy at all to try and get them fixed. I'll look for someone tomorrow, although I bet they're already fully booked by now.

Journal entry 542 15th June 2022

I'm worried about Jonas. He was weirdly efficient this morning, getting his work done in half the time it should usually take - and that means a quarter of the time it usually takes him, given the number of questions he has to ask - but then spent the time he'd freed up researching electricity and the storm last night.

I thought I was badly hit - a few broken fence panels, one nightmare commute - but it turns out his building was actually struck by lightning. He kept asking me questions about how lightning actually works, as if I'd have the first clue. I'm pretty good at answering him on work stuff, often because I've already given the same answer before, but he seems to think that makes me an expert on everything.

"How can I recreate it?" was one of them, which is such a weird hypothetical that I don't think it even makes sense. Nobody creates lightning - unless I'm even more ignorant than I thought. I assume he didn't meant literally, but I'm lost as to what he actually wanted. Besides, even if I did know how to summon another storm, I certainly wouldn't tell anybody - least of all a maniac like him. I'm not sure my savings could afford any more damage like last night.

Anyway, he left at lunchtime for a dentist appointment he'd forgotten to tell anyone about - that's classic scatterbrain Jonas for you - so I didn't get the chance to ask him what the hell he was on about. I do worry about him sometimes, you know - whether he's actually not all there, beyond the jokes I make along similar lines. Hopefully he's just a bit shocked and excited by living through a freak occurrence like that. I guess I can always check in with him tomorrow.

[ambiguouspuzuma]

#i really like doing chapter titles now#but youre right thar you dont see them much so i didnt think to include them sooner#and i didnt think of including them until very suddenly i did#not the fainting kind will also have fun chapter titles#as will my not yet properly announced urban fantasy thing Claretbury Chronicles#idk if you were just ranting or if you wanted suggestions but they dont call me the unwarranted advice giver for nothing

Well it's good to hear about all of your WIPs! I'm glad you're fighting back against the tide, and taking quotes from the chapter is a classic but great way to do it.

There should be more books that have chapter titles, and then a little summary of the chapter below them. You don't have to be boring with them, or spoil the whole chapter by telling what happens - you could make it vague, like a prophecy of something you know is going to happen, but you don't know how, or with what results.

Having one-sentence summaries like "Chapter 12 - where the Queen's hound makes a fatal mistake" and you're like oh shit does this refer to the queen's actual hunting dog, or the guy that's mockingly called her lapdog? "Chapter 24 - where justice finds a thief, and a thief finds justice" and you're like ooooh shit the cute little pickpocket is going to get caught, and then it turns out that shit, she does get caught, but by someone who actually agrees that she's right to steal to help feed her family, and gets her help instead, which is justice.

You already know what's going to happen, but not how.