dis. ease

fallen to dis. ease
once easy to give in to the morning light
(now harder than ever.)

March 24, 2011

Sour smoke rolls off his tongue. Stale. Frustrated, Jay mashes the cigarette to the ashtray, crumpling its paper shell. His restless, white hands writhe, finger roughly and unsteadily gripping at thin air.

Nothing. I have NOTHING...

Years of toiling over this... this man... (cuz that must be what it is...) for nothing...

That Goddamn Batman...

March 23, 2011

licking the lip of a broken bottle.
splitting the skin of an overused muscle.
beading up like the pearls rolling down your neck.
smile of rubies
            like diamonds
                 like coal

throw your head back and drink from the fountain...

Murder Mystery: mirrored picture frame, Judge, Hair salon

The taint of velvet stands dormant on my fingertips. The girl lays lifeless in my arms, a reminder of how fragile these bodies are. Paper flesh. Glass bones. Rigid. Breakable. She's been missing for weeks. Her family's struggling with the loss. They insist she'll be back.
"She always comes back... she's run away before- but she ALWAYS comes back!"
Sorry, Mrs. Johnson, your daughter's gone for good.

  This used to be a hair salon back in the 20s. Since then it's been everything from a 7/11 to a whorehouse (come to think of it, there isn't much difference...) But now... now it's just an empty box. Lined with cobwebs and rat's nests, no one's been in here for decades. No one except predator and prey...

   No blood. A mirror at her side. She's always been known for her beauty, her vanity. Blonde wisps of hair cover her neck- cover her wounds. Teeth wounds. Claw marks on her arms. Bruises. No blood. A hot, sweet breeze caresses my bare back. The feel of fluttering wings and the scent of hungry fangs. The succubus Queen: Judge of the Underworld. She harvests the lives of young girls to keep her soul alight- a licking flame af hate and sizzling jealousy.

   The succubus rises, baring her fangs. The demon's red eyes gleam in the gunfire. *brakka! brakka! brakka!* of my automatic fire. In one clip, the goddess of lust lies dead in a pool of the blood she's stolen from countless beauties laid to rest. May they finally find peace.

March 9th 2011

Fading like a lover's dying passion.
Fading like a child's respect for innocence.
Fading like a soldiers hope for survival.
Fading like the life in the eyes of an old man.
Fading like the lust at dawn.
Fading like the pain of loss.
Out of control.
Out of my mind.
Out of patience.
Out of time.
Spiraling, dwindling, spinning, falling, falling past the point of no return.
Where did I go wrong?
Where do I go now?
What is left for this empty shell?
What is left of this ghost blows, blows
down, down, down,
to the furthest reaches of outerspace.
Out of time.

March 7th 2011

A swirling cloud of silver hair gilded her, floating as if the atmosphere had liquified. Her eyes locked on ome invisible spot, transfixed...

A Passage From"Body Traps"

Music. It's the only thing in this world that keeps me going. Calloused fingertips strum, pluck, pick shining guitar strings. Acoustic. Vintage. My caramel-finished, wooden miracle. The evening December breeze carries my voice away like silver ashes, scattering them amongst the rushing yellow cabs and the streetlamps slowly, slowly flickering to life. New York City rings with my song- or at least this corner of Manhattan. Cigarette butt tornadoes start to collect at my feet, harsh wind licks my face. Taunting. Disheartening. No one's listening. Empty bodies pass, their eyes blank and bored. Oblivious. My willpower to continue playing dwindles. Calloused fingers go limp, my last chord lingering, heavy, dissipating. My coffee can sits- empty- at my feet. Another evening of petty begging and heartless passers by. At least I earned some alone time... it's hard to come by lately.

            And so returns the cacophony of tires over broken glass clashing with the calls and cries of angry men clashing with the thousand tiny beads of light rushing at me clashing with the clak clak clak of heels on frozen pavement. Smog and noise are the lifeblood of my little corner of Manhattan- my little slice of heaven- but they're not the reason my heart is dragged back here night after night. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafts from the shop I share my heaven with. I know that every night, like clockwork, I can catch a glimpse of her face. Cinnamon mocha beauty. I swear, her chocolate eyes lock with my own brassy, amber and- I know it sounds odd but, I feel with every timid glance she sees deep into the depths of my spirit and... and she understands. She understands me like no other. Yet we haven't breathed a single word. The clak clak clak of her heels. 5. 4. 3. 2. 1. This is my moment to break our silence.

Rising Action practice

Indigo:

A tiny room.Locked. Filled to overflow with filthy people. Eventually, the conversation gets boring and the bodies quiet down. Silence so deep that they're no longer human. Just bodies. Flesh with no meaning. The carcassess of the memories of the people that used to live in these shells. Long, Long Forgotten. Dust falls quietly from the rotting rafters like black snow. It covers the flesh in a thick crust, layer after layer, creating a second skin.

Body Traps (back of the book.)

Born Michelle Moore, transgendered musician and hopeless romantic, Micheal, desperately longs for two things: a male body and a lover that will accept him for who he is. For the first time in his life, Micheal feels that he has found "the one." Angel is the most beautiful girl he has ever seen and, little does he know, she understands his problems more than he realizes. Happily ever after, right? Not with Derek around. Micheal's possessive boyfriend is dead set on making "Michelle's" life miserable. If Derek isn't happy, no one is. Will Micheal overcome Derek's abusive nature and be with the one he truly loves? What will Micheal do when he is faced with a life altering decision, an overwhelming feeling of acceptance, and a jaw dropping, earth shattering encounter?...

Goddess. Mother.

Her violent awakening shakes her to the core. Flytrap eyes writhing in their dry sockets, wanting, ready to latch on to something- anything. Surgical steel wire entraps her lips in a sickeningly woven mass. The tension of the sutures as she fights against them summons beads of hot blood to her tongue, down her chin.
Strung Up.
She hangs
          hangs
              hangs
limps in some demented marionette stance. Shoulders buckled. Hips twisted. Knees brushing the cold, white tile ans she gently swings- back- forth- back- forth- by her pierced wrists.
Naked body once on pins and needles, now blissfully numb. Latex gloves slowly snip the stitches. Slowly, tediously, pulling, tugging loose skin. Dutifully releasing her from this deep, breathless sleep.

Apophenia;

I don't quite know why I like the word "Apophenia." Perhaps it's because I learned it from a graphic novel :/ hmm... I don't even think it's in the dictionary.
It's a condition where you see things that aren't really there (not like ghosts and stuff... more like optical illusions. Confusing? Yeah. I know. Eh... it's a psychology word... and a crazy confusing concept.). As human beings, we all have degrees of Apophenia. for example, when I draw this

:)

what do we all see?
a face of course. But what is it really?
it's just a colon and a parenthesis.
and what are the colon and parenthesis really?
just pixels on a screen lighting up in a specific order.
and what are pixels?
...
it goes on and on and on.
it really makes me feel like an absurdist or a nihilist (or that might just be Mr. Mau's class XD). Because nothing is ever just what it seems,. Everything has some deeper particles of existence that are altogether meaningless by themselves, though crucial to the make up of the whole idea, principle, object as a whole.

anyways, Our brains make connections to things subconciously. FASCINATING! (I wanna take psychology)