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  1. Poems

    Malware Petals Underfoot debone these plucked continents draw strips of gristled infrastructure from the planet’s spinal column —I don’t know how to continue (never knew) head swimming with your gasoline fume footprints… jagged cityscapes lip sync against cloaking wind thumbs caress hip bones of ash— shake the seeds from stone-edged wolf howl sow them along your jaw like a row of teeth… —there is a species of solitude, a liquid thread of tomorrows, the world caught mid-step over our petal feet (the hollow-sprawl in my chest rising sternum carved into winging arrow head— when did I realize you would never speak to me again?)
  2. Poems

    Advertisements from the Unraveled Dream wield shards of crashing billboards (first mistake: opening my eyes) suture pierced atmospheres with strands of impact craters (snagged dance music loops, swells into fossilized sound…) —we were the slum lords of the coiled dream built ghettoes from discarded marketing slogans you left me collapsed in the freezer aisle (smell of your perfume: another ellipsis) plastic immortality clinging to me like a pack of dogs —your symbolic adoption supports WWF's global efforts to protect wild animals and their habitats… there could be as few as 3,890 tigers in the wild, most in isolated pockets spread across increasingly fragmented forests[1] —the need for a vessel for my soul… the dying, (…) forced to sponsor starved vermin by startup animistic foundations— … even now I persist in my goldfish etchings fragile language encircling the end. [1] https://gifts.worldwildlife.org/gift-center/gifts/Species-Adoptions.aspx
  3. Poems

    Clothes that Kill Virgins (Revised) —your turtleneck smooth as artillery shells sand off the rough edges of afterlife skip the polished stone across boiling creek water… for a time we courted vocaloids with our vapor trail mouths before they too fell silent— (…bitter crystals dissolve along your terracotta tongue like pop rocks… get your drug dealer on the phone but then you remember you are falling— have always been falling) step back from that cliff of photo filter— cleavage of rain droplets, curling against glass— deny the nature of your avian feet return them gently to nests cobbled from ceramic twigs —the last weather forecast nestles itself against the back of my teeth as these mottled seasons crumple in our waxy palms but in this world training montages cannot save you and I am afraid as you run your eyes across the sharp ridges of my starvation …I retreat into my stanza-severing bones… I retreat into my condemned fingers like covered bridges I retreat…
  4. Poems

    Clothes that Kill Virgins cleavage of the rain drops curling against the glass prowess of the heron with its sweeping bedroom legs for a time we courted the vocaloids but soon, they too fell silent the last weather forecast nestles itself against the back of my teeth glacial bones melt in my throat discussing tomorrow’s weather long after the mottled seasons crumple into piles a woman perched on a velvet loveseat cliff of photo filter at her back algal bloom along her forgotten voice low drape of a backless turtleneck avian eyelashes fall from the ruin of virgin eyes.
  5. Poems

    @Fossa-Boy Nice use of metaphor there. I have a bad case of writer's block at the moment, so it's nice to see someone who can actually put a sizable amount of text together.
  6. Poems

    Thanks @Conker, I'm not the biggest fan of meter (nor do I have the patience for it) but I also really like what you're doing. I'm always trying to mix up my use of line spacing but that tends to be what does it for me. Sweet title by the way.
  7. Poems

    After the Wicker Constellations Burned Away with the heat came the smell of a dying star like a man’s singed eyebrow coils of lilac made of anime eyes which I had hidden carefully from the sun pupil dilates, forms a horizon line eyelids like the skin of a red giant left alone with the astigmatic eyes of god feral search engines compile the last traces of language I would walk across covered bridges in the brittle silence practicing memory repression techniques the tattered crest of you still stinging my face animal shapes untangle themselves from the untrimmed shrubbery outside I remember voices like the seeds from a kicked dandelion the sunrise swelling into the footprint of an oil spill across one corner of the room constellations of light pollution shatter in their glass carapaces leaving this narrow space carved into the core of a stellar remnant I am tired of leaving these tiny defacements across the face of our silence I am tired of finding pictures of you still clinging to barren social media pages even as the network lines fray and burn away.
  8. Poems

    Darknesses that Appear Under Ultraviolet Light still in the process of my disappearance drenched in a web of black lights the lethal angles of this room have always reassured me somehow listening to a single soul bobbing along the ceiling in the midst of its atrophy (tighten fingers around rope rungs that lead away from here this body curled like a dead grasshopper slow cycle of visible light across the back of depressed eyelids the soundless crash back to earth) each day with its imperceptible watermark a trail of fingerprints phosphoresce along every breath leading back into my lungs these walls beaten so thin by your absence that I can feel nervous glances on the other side of the house imprinted on the air like mating insects each return is more damaging than the last, these bones threatening to break beneath my sudden presence above me, the moon lashed into place against my ceiling the colors around your face like soft bruises that fail to register on the scale of visible light I watch a mosquito lay its eggs in a pool of water collecting in some lost artifact the ruin of a discarded pop song holding its palms to the rain contraction (gentle current of blood through a paralyzed limb, the of ventricle walls, the striking stained armored surface against my ribs with its cave paintings) each word is more difficult to dredge from out of this silence I nearly let you slip away never to be revived by black lights I lay watching my voice disintegrate clutching this last word to my chest just as I think of something to say.
  9. As someone who took one geology course in university, I can tell you that you're looking at the wrong gem stones.
  10. The gem stone one is true actually.
  11. Poems

    Numbers there are only short brushfires of Spanish from the bank tellers time stapled to you as you bend forward to sign a check and the feet of my chair balanced on the edge of the carpet pattern somewhere there is another soul wrapped around my own like a parasite the clock taking ragged breaths but I have stopped listening (the night before I stood peeling carrots the metal teeth of the potato peeler digging into the curled larva of a fingertip the heat from the oven still trapped behind my eyelids long after the carrots had finished roasting) we follow a crack in the sidewalk I miss the easy geometry of my room you lead me toward the smell of a bakery your jaw making small movements beautiful sounds that I can no longer hear sometimes it seems you forget that I exist even as I am speaking to you there are the echoes of the human mind and its resistance to Boolean algebra, your contradictions like the workings of an intricate mechanism, as I brush unsolvable equations from your eyes (you do not recognize yourself in my poetry and now I cannot recognize you either— this word as unyielding as rock yet I can feel you stirring beneath it the fading light from my animal eyes snared for a moment in a mirror) at times I remember the wound shards of what I was buried beneath my skin like shrapnel a woman is having a seizure at the back of the bus her husband yelling to the driver to pull over but no, I have stopped listening I cannot turn my head to look back at her you are the one who calls 9-11 turning in disgust from my fear there is only the sudden urge to cover myself always my voice is a moment away from breaking as each poem is always a word away from falling into silence.
  12. Poems

    Highway my legs are the battered flank of a buck walking beside the guardrail of the highway morning traffic whispering past what little remains but there are no eyes left to stare out at me disappears car’s frame after the second woodchuck beneath the tire, its body jolts the slightly passing and I can feel its weight through me in grocery stores I listen to the barcode scanners as if there is a heartbeat behind them can a sound be carnivorous? how easy to lose oneself in those sudden, brief reprieves of silence something sharp and enduring embedding itself in me over time (my misanthropic eyes did not flinch from you I sat down beside you began to speak without thinking wielding my voice like a blunt object) refer to figure 1-1 for a visualization of the distance between “you” and “I” linguistically, these two words divided by the impotence of the verb, the space bar the most abused key, the least dust ridden, if only we could avoid the finality invoked by punctuation, notice that the removal of “you” results in sentence fragmentation, “I want” there is an honesty to this I have let you draw too close to me I must retreat into my own fragmentation the weight of poetry has become as great as the inheritance of scientific knowledge as I continue to rewrite the word you endlessly.
  13. Graphics arent everything

    I would add plot to your list of things that make good games. For me the gameplay and story should work together seamlessly and that's what really makes a great game experience. Graphics are important but sometimes a unique art style can work better than your typical high fidelity visuals. And there's just something about the old PS2 graphics for games like Ratchet and Clank, Sly Cooper, Jak and Daxter, Grand Theft Auto: Vice City, that I'm not sure video games will ever truly surpass.
  14. It's probably smart to begin humbly, as you put it, in order to keep a steady pace with your output. I like how you introduce the town slowly, after forcing the reader abruptly into things, as you move into the flashback scene where the main character listens to the woman provide some exposition. There are a few minor critiques I can make: how does the main character know the woman's name is Annabelle? I believe before this she's just referred to as the woman. I would break up the first sentence by adding a period after, "his eyes." Also the first sentence of the last paragraph should be "began to walk toward the tavern doors." Good luck with your story going forward. There's some good world building here and hopefully the characters you introduce will serve as more than exposition as you continue to flesh them out.
  15. Poems

    Pinecone Currency the distance between my window and the world has closed the lake resting its forehead against my glass shoulder pine saplings growing from the windowsill the space where my feet once touched the earth bodies drift around each other ethereal never joined by language lips brush momentarily glance her side fuck before their light fades just as quickly (you reached out, touched the silence that I happily cultivate, am fed by. kneel among the ruined walls of the future I built around you) shrill cries of geese escape from the wallpaper underbrush as the music from the next room shatters another of these walls and I busy myself writing noise complaint letters their words yearning their meaning an expanse stretching between them as the poet’s hand recoiled from the world a crow’s nest monstrous spans the top branches of a pine tree those trunks extending past the pane of light which once held my ceiling giving the air to falling pinecones I remember twisting them from low branches my hands thick with sap struggling in their prematurity I would wrench them free (these pinecones the gold standard for our war economies) I have run out of words I am beginning to repeat myself repeat others would you allow me to fill this space with silence? how many blank pages could I give to you? how many pages have you torn from me?