laughing cadavers.

laughing cadavers\\9.23.14

some people laugh in the faces of the dead, their demeanor feeble
a wretched dog in the grey of their days, numbered, one, two, three, four
how many more before their eyes shroud in the distant light?
their bones crumble and their teeth fall out, pieces and pieces of cadaver.

would you kill your soul to see them go? your soul was dead to begin with.

some time in the absence of the light the boots of men—brave! brave! brave!
like thunder clap against the empty universe, drowning inside the brainless curse.

if i had a penny for every time i fell down died, i’d be giggling too
too nervous to see it to the end, their graves marked by the devastating edge.

their emotions convulse over the empire, too many dead to see the ocean
colorless so be it.

colors must die when a good man drowns in war.




his knuckles are bruised. they cover varicose veins.
his bones wilt under the impact.

metal against grass, skin against concrete.

a gasp in the width of an uncaring crowd like
teethy foxes in place of the justice league.

revenge, except it never worked.

a jet in the air for the fairy winter solstice.

something pops as she suffers.

his watch might leave an imprint seared like from branding.

she closes her eyes and imagines red iron against red iron against him.

his fairytales were never false and it tore at her limbs,

creatures of satanic descent.

so she ran into the forest, they say, and the day was so hot

her atoms burst and she became the young willow tree by the river.

a thousand years and she’s still young. 

the classics club update

So basically I’m not reviewing books anymore because turns out I suck at them because I am overly optimistic and literally just rave about them even when they are not my favorite. Also, it’s not that fun. I’m still reading them, [just finished The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoevsky] and I’ll be crossing them out on my list if you want to see where I am. I am going to be writing more about writing and random things, but that is pretty much what I have been doing so far anyway. It’ll be like a time capsule of my thoughts and ideas and experiences that’ll be fun to look back on later.

writing is the universe.

Writing is the universe: it’s vast and complex and infinite and it sucks. How can mind-blowing things like nano-diamonds exist in the same dimension as my smelly socks? I cannot even fathom.
How can the slight difference in the structure of a molecule make the difference between an asthmatic medicine and the meth college-dropouts snort? I cannot even fathom.
I listen to Cobain and Grohl and Filter and Momsen and I’m happy and I cry. Why are emotions biologically explainable and yet still so so incomprehensible? I cannot even fathom. Sometimes I don’t want to.
This isn’t even about writing; this is about me because I am writing and I am the universe. Every single atom in the universe is the universe. I cannot—well, you know.
Here’s the paraphrased version of something someone said once: we learn that when our solar system was created, 99.99 percent of everything was sucked into the Sun. So everything else, the trees and you and me and spiders, are all the 00.01 percent that survived. And so we’re pretty freaking lucky.
I think I made a mistake. I said that everything in the universe is the universe, but actually, I think everything that cannot be touched, like our souls and our minds and our fears—that is the universe. Because those are the things that science can’t explain and Einstein can’t prove. And they are very scary because we cannot grasp them in our hands and call them mine. We cannot hunt them and frame them and showcase them in our houses. We cannot put price tags on them—we cannot even define them.
So why is this called ‘writing is the universe’? Because writing sets our souls and minds and fears free—and that makes writing so inconceivably powerful. And so yes, writing is the universe: it’s vast and complex and infinite and it does suck, but it is us.


there is a kingdom, deep deep within each creature, that holds the Great name of feardom. each scaly shadow that inhibits this land has one dream, one hollow goal in mind: to make you the queen.

do not let them.

no queen of fear-dumb
you need be
if feardom cease to be