A sign of the century
We bow to the earth
Kiss our loved ones through the roots
A tear that grows the branches
Dust to dust
A sign of the century
We bow to the earth
Kiss our loved ones through the roots
A tear that grows the branches
Dust to dust
Disclaimer: This cartoon is not for people who are easily offended and/or don’t understand humor.
Disclaimer: This cartoon is not for people who are easily offended and/or don’t understand humor.
Disclaimer: This cartoon is not for people who are easily offended and/or don’t understand humor.
Disclaimer: This cartoon is not for people who are easily offended and/or don’t understand humor.
200 words, rated R. And yes, this is about Amazon…
Tamberlin lazily fumbled for the remote, knuckles bumping into a wall of empty beer bottles. Her phone buzzed. She ignored it, rubbing her bare nipple. No work today, even if boss-man pleaded. She was pissed and in no temper to give charity to idiots. A religious imperative really.
The front door clicked. She dropped the remote, going head first to fish it off the floor. When she looked up, the Zon delivery guy stared back, wide eyed, package balanced in hand.
She reddened, closing her legs. “What? You’ve never seen a naked woman before?”
That startled him, prompting the package to tumble, contents making a definite shattering noise.
Tamberlin shot up, swaying. “Son of a! That was my hundred-dollar Seth statue!”
He hemmed and hawed, clearly horrified. “It’s only my first day.”
“Your last, if you don’t compensate.”
He backed up as she came forward. “How?”
“Make me happy, fucker!”
They locked eyes. He breathed like a cornered beast. “I could-”
“Get on with it!”
The door closed. He stripped. Very satisfactory, ox strong, hung like a horse.
“Back door, front door?” he asked sheepishly.
Tamberlin bent, ass cheeks framing wet pussy. “Haven’t had much luck with the front lately.”
Meno Silencio ©
Dear readers: Update on my upcoming book ‘three threesomes for the price of one’? I’m planning on putting it out tomorrow : D Still formatting the living daylights out of it, so that meatgrinder doesn’t spit it out as confetti… I will post here on my blog when it goes live, and if I haven’t told you guys already, I’m offering it for free the first week! So something to make your weekend even better. Feel free to get drunk and curl up with my book ; ) Just make sure to sober up before you post a review. lol For coherence’s sake.
New to my blog and want to read more 200 word tales of filth as well as some much longer works? Click here, and save yourself some searching.
Grave stench
That is what
We are left with
Surveil
We are sleeping
With enemies
Apocalypse
Cries one,
Broken by our dark progress
No,
I answer,
It is only war
There is a long slow dying,
As the death flower blooms
From encompassing rubble
Rotting scent
Wafting from blood skull petals
A shuddering corpse
Where stamen should be.
Why give life after all
When one can only taste decay?
The flower roots in, deeply
Watered in blood and tears
Sung lullabies of shrieks
It stretches, grows
Hoping faintly that heaven will look down
Upon its stagnate turmoil,
And finally crush its never ending misery.
The Witch’s Bookshelf: Phantom Noise by Brian Turner
Standing in aisle 16, the hammer and anchor aisle,
I bust a 50 pound box of double-headed nails
open by accident, their oily bright shanks
and diamond points like firing pins
from M-4s and M-16s.
In a steady stream
they pour onto the tile floor, constant as shells
falling south of Baghdad last night, where Bosch
kneeled under the chain guns of helicopters
stationed above, their tracer-fire a synaptic geometry
of light.
At dawn, when the shelling stops,
hundreds of bandages will not be enough.
–“At Lowe’s Home Improvement Center”(excerpt), From Phantom Noise by Brian Turner
Phantom noise is Brian Turner’s second book of poetry. You can read my review of his first book (titled ‘Here, Bullet‘) here.
If ‘Here, Bullet’ was a portrait of a soldier enwrapt in war, ‘Phantom Noise’ is one of the battle to disentangle ones self from war. In another words, it is a completely different book, something I always view as a bonus (no one wants to read the same thing over, and over again). At the same time it manages to retain his unique voice.
That being said, I found it a little difficult at first to adjust to the change, maybe it was because the center of the first poem throws you abruptly into his love life, something very distant and undealt with. Or perhaps it is because his first book was so stunningly beautiful that it made this one feel a little cold. The feeling didn’t last, as this book quickly gave me reasons to admire it in its own right. In fact the cold distance communicated the atmosphere change well.
There is a great deal of new ground covered in this book really, with some poems that are intensely political (‘Sleeping in Dick Cheney’s Bed’), and others that read as almost memoir/childhood summations (‘Homemade Napalm’, ‘Lucky Money’). The majority though stand as a monument to the ghosts that soldiers bring back from war, the scars that never really heal over.
I honestly hope you’ll check out this book, buy it if you like it, it’s worth every cent, just like the first one. At this point I might as well sign up for the life time fan club right?
Have you read any good books of poetry written by soldiers? Feel free to give me suggestions below!
The beasts
Wrapped delicately in human skin
Stalk the curving expanse
They are not us
But they are
Bellyful of fire
Rancid hate
Eyes glowing sanctamoniously
They are hunters
We have become prey
When the skin peels
Sloughs away
And they are naked
See what is below
It is not us
They are gnarled blackness
Blood flowing from secret orfices
Stuffed with secret pain and rage
They are not us
Are they?
They descend, tear like wolves
Children from mothers
Life from breath, blood from brow
No, they are not us
Not anymore
Until they are waste also
Victims of their own zeal
No longer anything