Iuppiter
Member
Joined: 07 Jun 2003
Posts: 30
Location: Indianapolis, Indiana
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 Posted: Wed Aug 04, 2004 12:11 am
Post subject: "...posting literature that users have written themselv |
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Don't mind if I do.
Here is some of my more recent shtuff, copied and pasted from another messageboard, in order from oldest to newest.
| Benevolent Jest wrote: | Wake, wake you sleepy-head and
See the setting sun tonight
Rise up from your wooden bed;
Meet the coming of the light
You have slept for far too long
--Will you sleep until the dawn?
--Hear the onset of the song?
Letting out a fetid yawn
Proffer at least a prayer,
"Ancients end with their caress"
--Could it be the angels err?
Far too late to acquiesce
A dark malignancy grows,
Decadence fills the dreamer,
Dusk falls on the eyes as crows
--Who now is this saboteur?
Hardly a knife in her chest
--Is it alleviation?
--Or some benevolent jest?
A passing hibernation
Seeing now that it is through,
The watcher mourns for his soul
Kneeling on the marble pew
Sleeping surely took its toll
Her life had been meant for him
--Was he not the entire choir?
--Had he not begun the hymn?
Gazing at the burning pyre
Stolen by some unseen palm
--Why was the hand not his own?
--How had she appeared so calm?
Stained so deeply to the bone
She was his, savior and lord
From the torment of the dream
Leader of this pious horde
--From them; Could this evil scheme?
--How far could they be trusted?
Envious of all his soul
Knowing how they had lusted
Only one that could have stole
That bloody half-man machine
--Thinking this was his to take?
Seeing that accursed mien
Now his life was his to break
--But what now, a second thought?
He now becomes the rescued
She had been weak, had not fought,
Shied from this relentless brood
--What of her might he now miss?
She had given all to him
Draining as it was, her kiss
Borne up by these seraphim
--Was he saved from this duty?
Still, living with that intent
--Could he have touched her beauty?
Dreams unwilling to lament
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As final as it's going to get. I'm not doing any more with this in the foreseeable future.
| Bird and Bear wrote: | The Bird says to the Bear:
"A dirty pauper and empty bondsman, to have beatings as a guide.
A dying shell and tired corpse, to be used and cast aside.
Sullen and sniveling, just an ungrateful cur.
Dancing on strings, such a lazy farceur."
To which it would declare:
“A petty lawman and coarse tyrant, in an unending rage.
A scheming chiseler and arrogant crook, which ought be in a cage.
Hiding and haunting, such a false cavalier.
Playing with dolls, just a brazen puppeteer.”
For when the Bird cries,
To death,
The Bear dances.
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Most definitely final.
| Their Last Ride wrote: | …closing his eyes, he let himself fall…
As he took his usual seat at the back of the bus, he gazed down the aisle; his eyes traced the fresh trail of what would soon be permanent stains leading from the door directly to the area of blue-tan checkered carpet now beneath his feet. He was not the first to have marked his path in that way, and one more small addition of the greasy substance would make little difference on one of these city buses. Among all the people entering off of the street, there would always be a few who would have stepped in that side effect of convenience—one of the many puddles with its swirling rainbows of oil. After searching the other seats, he found the invariable blue seat cushion with a large tear in it, spitting out its stuffing in an attempt to dry the floor with it. He turned to look out the window, but the scratches and smears, coupled with the dusty yellow-gray tint of the interior lighting, only gave him a glimpse of his own tired expression, the way his hair was beginning to recede, the way his clothes hung on his body, his entire appearance seemed to mimic that of the bus. However, over the years, he had changed, while the buses were always the same, and he was far from new to the experience of public transportation. He counted this off as his six-thousand-four-hundred-fifty-third time to look down that aisle.
He arranged his briefcase on his lap, its leather handle worn, its metal clasps dull and dented, and his once glittering initials continuing to fade. It was the same briefcase he had received as a gift when he began his first real career more than twenty-five years ago. Except it had never evolved into the career that he had hoped it would. He had not had the exact same job that entire time, for he had been shuffled around a bit to accommodate others as they were promoted. Any chance of moving farther in his career had been destroyed by what he at first considered a series of difficulties, but later recognized as a plague. His father had died shortly before his birth, and his mother was admitted into a mental institute, unable to bear the grief of her deceased husband and the pressure of raising a son on her own. With no other relatives, he then lived in an orphanage until the age of eighteen. Soon after leaving, he married the woman who would quickly become his ex-wife. Only a few months into their marriage, they learned that he would be unable to have any children of his own. Knowing what it was like to grow up without a family, he wished to adopt. Unfortunately, that was not the life his wife had planned for, and it was becoming apparent that he was not going anywhere with his job. She left him for a man who could provide her, and in fact already had, with the beginnings of a family of her own. He knew nothing about their life together beside the fact that they had one illegitimate daughter, and another a few years later after they were married. Giving up hope for any future marriage for himself, he resigned himself to the belief that the only aisle he would ever walk down again would be that of the bus.
The bus came to his stop and the cold moist air flooded the chamber as the door opened wide to the storm like a gaping mouth with a parched tongue. As he stood to get off, his ear was raised to the level of the speakers, and from them he heard some muffled and distorted orchestra piece. He tried to distinguish any coherent music in all the static and recognized it as Wagner’s, filling the air with maidens clad in brilliant armor, making their deliveries to Valhalla and the house of Freya. As he looked down the aisle, he had the impression of the people as statues, as if the storm had washed away all life. They seemed to be waiting for his journey down the aisle with eyes set for mourning. Looking closer in the dim light, he noticed that not all of the people riding were the usual commuters seen in the early morning on their way to work. A man with long black hair and beard, shiny with oil and sweat, lay sprawled across several seats with a thick overcoat wide open and spilling onto the floor, revealing a tattered shirt underneath. He seemed to be asleep, or unconscious, for he clutched a green bottle, partially concealed in a paper bag, directly over his heart. He quickly looked away and walked onward as the vagrant suddenly opened his eyes and wrapped himself in his coat, covering the bottle entirely. He continued down the aisle until he thought he heard somebody whispering to him, but when he turned to see who it was, he saw that it was simply an elderly woman muttering something to herself. Thinning wisps of white hair were moving back and forth as she slowly bobbed her head up and down. Her pale eyes were focused directly on his briefcase, as saliva slowly leaked out of her mouth and down her chin. Backing up, discomforted by the sight, he nearly fell over a woman and two children huddled on the floor. The woman had dark sunken eyes and bruises all across her face. Dark red welts scarred her arms, which were holding both of the sleeping children on either side of her. They were both fairly small, with shaved heads, so he was unable to tell whether they were boys or girls. All three of them looked as if they had not eaten in days, and he was thoroughly disheartened when he was unable to find his wallet and offer them whatever little he might have had in it. Regretfully, he continued down the aisle, and he was almost at the end when a sudden cold wind blasted though the open door, carrying the whispers of a man dressed in black with a white collar to his ears.
The man dipped his fingers in a vial of oil and brought them up to the forehead of the man who was leaning on his shoulder, gazing at one of the lights. As he touched the man’s head, he looked at the same light and whispered, “Through this holy anointing may the Lord in His love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit.” He then withdrew his hand and placed it within the left hand of the other man, intoning slightly louder, “May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up.” The other man then blinked his eyes at the light a few times, let out a sigh, and slumped against the priest. He spun around as he heard somebody convulsing behind him, but he could not see the man’s face, as it was hidden beneath the hood of a sweatshirt. The hacking man bent double in his seat, coughing phlegm and blood all over his old briefcase. Dropping it where he stood, he rushed for the open door, fleeing from the funereal chamber, out into the storm.
Though it was still too early for the sun’s rays to pierce the night, and despite the rain pouring down on him, he felt calm compared to the oppressiveness of the bus. The bus pulled away, as he remained standing in the rain, allowing it to wash away the memories of his recent journey down the aisle. Lightning struck high in the heavens, and he jokingly wondered what could have made Odin so angry. His nervous mirth disappeared as he turned his eyes skyward and experienced a feeling he was sure his mother had experienced the few moments before she had attempted to take her own life. The faces of the people on the bus came racing back to him as he gazed in wonderment at the top of his office building. He knew exactly what he would do…
…he entered the main doors and took the elevator to his floor…
…passing by his cubicle and computer, he decided he would leave no note…
…he climbed the stairs until he arrived at the door out to the roof…
…standing on the very edge of the building, the rain fell around him, exploding as it hit the pavement so many floors below…
…closing his eyes, he let himself fall…
Lightning struck again and woke him from his dream. Tears streamed down his cheeks as they mixed with the rain hammering his face. He was still looking upward, and high above him, he saw a window being opened. Light from within outlined a figure simply standing there, looking out to the storm. And then it let itself fall…
* * *
“At six-thirty yesterday morning, Scott Williams drove his car into the parking garage across from his office building. When asked if he noticed anything unusual about Mr. Williams the guard at the gate said that, ‘he seemed to be his normal self, nothing awkward of strange.’ His secretary gave a very similar account, stating that, ‘he said that he would like coffee to be brought in, there was no reason for me to suspect anything.’ She would be the last person to see him alive, for it is estimated that at around six forty-five, Mr. Williams threw himself out of his own office window. Investigators have no doubts that his death was self-inflicted; however, they are unable to find any evidence of his cause for suicide. Even his widow could not offer any clues, though still distraught over the loss of her husband and father of their two daughters. Mr. Williams’ former employer spoke in support of him earlier today, ‘Scott was a good man, loved by everybody. We will all miss him.’ This was not the only loss for the company yesterday; Mr. Williams most unfortunately struck a man just arriving off of a bus. Coroners report that both of the men’s deaths were swift and painless, but that is little consolation for the wife still searching for answers.”
“And now to Pat with some hopefully good news on the weather.”
“Yes indeed, I do have good news. I’m sure we’re all ready for the sun to come out after that week of rain. Well later this afternoon, the storms will be clearing out and the sun should start to…”
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That is probably the final version, still not sure about a couple points.
| A Narcotic Salt wrote: | From me she could never hide,
So living always at my side
Her beauty long ago had died.
Born among the gods above,
And sheltered by their sacred love,
For years she slept; a peaceful dove.
But out of their laps she simply fell;
Tumbling down to a sterile hell,
Where only I and destruction dwell.
A wasteland of her I have made,
And deep within her heart have laid
Countless strokes of a frozen blade.
Ignoring all her broken pain,
I opened up a golden vein,
And filled; an incorruptible bane.
So come see this place of syringes and scalpels
Caterers of chilled euphoria; get lost in
The peaceful den beside the bone yard.
Beneath a hollow tree, you’ll come to forget
That which brought you here and takes you away.
Ignore those who lie around you, for they awoke
From their dreams only to find themselves
Already asleep. Until you find that peace within
You never knew they never told you never asked
What keeps you here and holds you this way?
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Definitely NOT final, but I haven't touched it in a while. I should actually probably cut this into two seperate things. Maybe throw out the first part, or mix it up... something.
| Unfaithful wrote: | O, how she doth despise
That glimmering of thine eyes,
Anon, the ponce be merry. |
My tribute to Shakespeare. |
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