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nonsenseflowerpoetry · 1 year

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AND SO I BITE DOWN

in the mirror lurks a pint-sized parasite, beady eyes alight

a mouse, whiskered, with roseate patches and a rodent overbite

she braces herself to shield teeth from sight when she eats

so scared of being Sliced Up/

of being Spat Out/

of being Seen.

a black narcissus, under the spotlight of selective attention

in a waltz of resentment, they whisper how she used to be

breathing in beats: the buzzing sound of weather-beaten machines

the singing of the steampunk bee, who doesn’t go down quietly

engineered to go down stinging & pull you along with it

the antennae which grip, with the cries it wrings from us both

smashing up our systems to watch them go up in smoke

the unrewarding punch-line to an ongoing practical joke

felt like being the pied piper of incels was coded in my genes

shaky self-esteem skittering on the surface

skipping across the stream of consciousness

you see, they’re laughing at us, gnashers gnawing on crossed wires.

a speech spear stabs, so she squirrels away the right things to say

a woodland creature, weird and wild. a wasteland babe in an aesop’s fable

shrine to a dead girl, yet fuckable. because of late blooming breasts?

she tastes of something rotten, the crushed fruit of collateral damage

this one's got a short fuse, searching too deeply within the sternum of herself

bleeding blue and afraid of losing: got to break through this city of delusion

a heart moving t’wrd the truth but seemingly so far, far away from improving

it’s time for a brain revolution, and starting is the hardest thing to do

it doesn’t have to be sappy self-love: just scraps of self-respect

i avoided the cracks in the pavement and craved the quiet

made myself my own dirty secret, a snowball in negative

the portrait i pitched isn’t right. i scrunch up when i smile.

lips curled and crinkled at the corners into subtle shapes.

withering petals, dimpled cheeks & the nectar of eccentricity

learning organic origami, unfurling and finding better ways to be brave.

i’d never believe in crystal skulls but i’ll snap up the sweetened shards/

swathe myself in the sparkling sugary shrapnel, the woozy white stars wrapped in my arms;

willo the wisp is wing-tipped and wistful. waif-like and wary of men whose eyebrows meet in the middle. granny warned her not to stray from the path, as amorous youths are wolves underneath. she shoots this one and comforts the tamed beast. she walked in, plucked the fruit from their feast and broke the spell of social nicety. told them directly what he took from her. the pack serenade mother and baby as revenge for that terrible wrong. taking the power back, as the one to speak its name out loud.

belief clouded by doubt: but what will I protect her with? my muscles, my mouth?

the only way i'd make noise was to write loud. poem my way out in another evening art-attack.

[never succumb to scavengers or let them in. they extract the sap from my skin and suffocate; choke on the crumbs of comfort they clutch at.

don’t get in over your head, you’ll get swept away. i see in infra-red when i disobey you]

no prions infiltrate this soft shell again. only i split myself open and put myself together

it's good that i like purple. bruising so easily, but neurogenesis means i land on my feet

the days and nights keep blurring together. creating a new soma, a new home.

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bowelflies · 5 years

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IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT:

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rileysroleplayreservoir · 4 years

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cont. from here || @mewgagotoku “Now I know ya pullin’ my leg cus even my sweet ol’ granny told me I had a set o’ rusted pipes.” Majima smirked, poking at her with holey socks. “Ya wanna get ya ears checked if that’s true.”

“I’m serious!” Riley laughed, snatching up one of his feet, grabbing his ankle giving his leg a playful shake. There had been a lull in their movie marathon of gnashers and delightfully undead anklebiters. If he kicked about she’d only try to keep snatching his feet in play. “My ears are just fine, thank you very much.” She stuck her tongue out at him, patting at his leg before reaching for her drink. “I wouldn’t say it’s rusty - it’s sharp at times, shrill at times too - but then sometimes you get a nice low tone either when you’re relaxed. Or reaaaally serious.” She couldn’t help but give a shiver at that. Both because at times Majima could be very intimidating and - well. Admittedly the low tones sounded really nice. Go figure. Relaxing back on the comfy couch she gave a thoughtful, almost daydreaming expression. “Then there’s those times when you’re really...really mischievous. It’s...really kinda cute?” “Dunno, you’re just really comforting to listen to. Also dude am I going to have to buy you new socks? Ain’t your feet cold in these things??”

#[owl eyes o'malley]#[majima goro]#[Movie Night]#//majima is me LOL

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talesfromtheartbog · 4 years

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Day 2: Hidden

"Just a little further," Duststorm hollered, struggling to hold the rope steady as Gnasher worked his way up.

"This Palace of yours had better be worth it," Gnasher said as he finally crested the top. Not many in their clan made their way up to the High Hills. Things weren't safe in the valley — they weren't safe anywhere — but the path up to the High Hills was particularly treacherous, and her people were Valley Folk all the same. Luckily they hadn't encountered any of the Shreddercats that prowled the area, and while the winding Old Road that snaked its way through the hilly terrain was undoubtedly routinely patrolled by marauders, climbing proved a direct and inconspicuous route for those strong and foolish enough to do it.

"Yes, it will be," Duststorm said, her voice alight with wonder despite the long, slow climb. "Just you wait. I saw it once at night from the valley, on a hunt through the farseers. I've never seen a place so large and still intact."

"Guess I'll believe it when I see it," Gnasher said, wiping the sweat away from his brow. His good eye struggled to focus through the dust and sweat. Most plantlife dried up and died sone time ago, but the brambles thrived on the High Hills, making an already treacherous climb slower and more arduous. "What do you think is even left up there anyway?"

"Granny Lodi says she remembers it from the Beforetimes," Duststorm said. "She was just a little girl when the land stopped growing life and the fire fell from the sky, but she has told us all about the king who lived in the Palace. She said he owned a vast mine and used all his gold and diamonds to buy the Palace, even though a great Queen and her husband saught it as well. Granny Lodi says the king was so powerful and wealthy, he had an entire chamber just for eating food sweeter than a Mutieberry, and it was all for himself because he never took a concubine or bride to share it with."

"If you say so, Storm," Gnash said with a shrug. "Granny Lodi also says that people used to walk on streets paved with stars as heroes of legend danced and posed for photomagraphs."

"Just you wait, Duststorm said impatiently as she set off again. "Noy much further." Indeed, after only a few minutes the pair came to a clearing on the other side of the brush and stood gobsmacked in the presence of the Palace. It was more magnificant than either could have imagined. It had its own concrete lake, glass walls and a beautiful balcony thay overlooked the whole of the Valley. They stood for what seemed like forever, taking in its majesty.

"Wow Storm, I can't believe it," Gnash said, breaking the awe-struck silence. Well what are we waiting for? Let's see what treasures and sweettreats await us insi-"

Gnash would never see what treasures and sweets awaited, for a cruel spear punctuated his sentence and his lung. For indeed, the two foolhardy Valley Folk were far from the first to make their way to this Palace in the High Hills. The scream caught in Storm's throat as Gnash fell, his lifeblood cascading into the scorched earth below him. Their assailants descended upon them, emerging from the concrete lake and the Palace and the brambles around them. This gang of marauders, who knows how long they had dwelled within the Palace halls? But clearly it was theirs, and clearly they had been there for some time, and clearly they had fashioned themselves after the same legends of the Great King that had been passed down from Granny Lodi and the Oldfolk from the Beforetimes. They all wore strange, low-top flat brimmed hats fashioned from animal hides, and grew their beards out long and wild from the neck but kept the sides and front of their faces shaved. They carried torches, pickaxes and even crude blades fashioned from metals no-doubt scavanged from the rival palaces that litteree the High Hills.

As the marauders encircled Dusstorm, their leader approached her. For there was no doubt he was their leader: his neckbeard flowed the longest and his hat was adorned with scraps of glass, stone and even diamond.

"Notcha Notcha," the leader said. It was a strangr tongue unlike any Dusstorm had ever heard.

"NOTCHA NOTCHA," came the reply in unison as the marauders stamped their boots in the dust.

The chant continued, rhythmic and ominous as the chieftain approached Storm. He drew his pickaxe and held it high above his head. Duststorm screamed and held her arms above her head, revealing what had until now remained obscured from view: her underarms, the sweat soaked through her thin, dusty, bedraggled shirt from the hard climb.

The chieftain stopped in his tracks as the marauders gasped and murmered at the sight. Immediately those that surrounded her fell prostrate. "Anime anime!" they murmured in reverant tones. "Hatsune Miku pitpit sweatu!"

The chief removed his hat and took a knee, averting his gaze. He offered his pickaxe to Storm as a smile crept to her face. Down below in the Valley, where the Marauders raided and the duststorms blew away their thin tents and the food was scarce, she was just a gatherer restless for a better life. But up here, now, she was handed the keys to the kingdom. She could become a goddess, a queen. She accepted the pickaxe as a new day dawned. She strode toward her Palace and the beginning of her destiny.

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