I. The Prisoner
Derailed and shackled, the prisoner speaks this verse:
twould be marked on sands of time, withered winds
and flames of wine; which would be painted
in sunsets and cast in dawns and draped in
silver afternoons? beyond the anthills and desert planes,
through tumbling waters and galleon sailor strains
in the sweat of his brow and the pulse of my heart
in the connections of the planets when they
align with the stars: maple ruses
and autumn strings: washed away chords
and the eagles wings; youve shook me,
you shake me, you kicked me and slay me
and you tear away my noble feathers but youll
shes notebook paper faded and
tea-stained in winters
clockwork-tainted splintered
and cracked spine painted shrines
of fools gold and worthless dimes
and ice whiskered catacomb mines.
he whispers wistfully to the clouds
in snake crawled words. hes
composed of guillotines and gun powder
stains/ (theyre his only friends) he carves
portraits of them on the walls. he never
sees them at night (nocturnal insomniac
and afraid of the dark) he wheezes at day
and hisses in alien tongues at the sun.
God is but a postpartum depression
in a rat-bitten sewer system, mark these
words, on the pipes they drift to his
g
dying, but only half way by breakthatfall, literature
Literature
dying, but only half way
in his delicate intuition he sleeps: they pull his hands
by strings in the wormholes of his dreams, marionetted
silhouetted; and in the winding balance (it aches of glass) he
rues and reaps shards and cuts, the blood spills over and
freezes and cracks like the winter sky. His serpent veins
hiss and slithering scales whisper tales of blue fire and
poisonous fangs and asphyxiation. He parts his lips
and swallows it whole: cotton mouth and diamond
backed and stalking silently along the ground.
His bones, tracing down his spine, vertebrae spinning
in acrobatic semantics: they spell it out and whisper
of ghosts in silk voices, and they&
Im walking around the building aimlessly to think. I just... I just dont get it. As much as I hate to admit it... Spencer... is right. He can do whatever the hell he wants. Its none of my damn business. Why do I care? So he fucked someone. Hes fucked lots of people, I imagine... But its not fair. Hes my roommate. Hes... hes... touched me and kissed me before anybody else here... but hes never...
What the hell am I thinking!? Theres no way Id ever-- but--
Aaaargh, I groan and hit my head on the wall. I pound a fist. Why the hell is this so confusing!?!
When I head
CATARACTS chapter VII by breakthatfall, literature
Literature
CATARACTS chapter VII
Im wandering around, bored, ditching that stupid art therapy class (Ms. Carra is out to get me, I know it...) and some asshole runs into me in the halls. We both trip. Ugh, great. My face to the floor isnt exactly my idea of adventure.
Watch where youre going, dumbass! I yell, shaking myself.
S-s-s-s-sorry... they stutter pathetically.
I open my eyes to look at the jackass. Bentz.
H-h-h-here... d-do you n-need h-help...? he asks and offers a hand.
I glare at him, craving to incinerate his hand with lasers that would shoot from my eyes. I slap his hand away and snarl, Fuck off. I