Fast-Paced Winter-Diving

Timmy loves winter.

He likes the silent whiteness. Among the sledding and the making of snowmen.

Timmy likes the feeling of gathering thick snow to make weapon projectiles.

Timmy realizes that when he put his fingers in the ice there is a pleasant numb feeling.

The best kind of shield. Like a really thick glove protecting you from external stimuli.

Timmy learned the word stimuli in school.

Timmy was looking at his half-frozen hand and Timmy found out that this glove is going to kill all the blood vessels in his palm. Hypothermia.

Timmy learned hypothermia from his late father. Who died from hypothermia.

Where Timmy lived, it was always snowing.

Timmy remembered the funeral. It was beautiful.

Timmy thinks death is beautiful.

But as Timmy lay buried in the snow and looked up into the shiny subzero sun (oh the beautiful pale star) he notices the icicles around him melting.

No.

No.

Goodbye lethargy.

The sun will now melt your slumber away.

Goodbye denial.

The sun will now reveal your body, your decay.

Goodbye.

Timmy sees the wrinkles on his hands now. Pruny fingers.

Timmy sees his father's corpse now.

Timmy dies alone, when it was revealed to him that his only patient friends were the glaciers reflecting him.

It's summer now. Timmy is sad.

Headlights

What we want is to be an individual. And we go through great pains to attain that individuality.

Like when it's dusk and the sun is setting, and you're stuck in the peak hour traffic.

Several cars around you have already turned their headlights on. But you refuse to follow suit. You wait awhile until YOU think it's dark enough, instead of relying upon what other people think "REALLY DARK" is.

I mean what does that say to you about yourself, if you just turn your headlights on when other people do it?

They would call you a sheep, that's what. An obeisance, meek, follower of trends.

But what if it gets really dark? Who cares about individuality?

I'm going to have to turn on my headlights anyway. I don't wanna die because I crave the feeling of being special.

But no, you love that feeling. Okay, let's reach a middle ground. Turn the lights on, but slightly later or earlier.

You can't turn them on too early though, they'll think you're a nutter with the headlights on at 4 pm.

If too late, then you'd be driving blind, unable to see anything.

God, but this is a terribly important decision.

Never mind that 80% of the songs you listen to are listened to by millions of others around the world, the value of which is corroborated by charts and album sales.

Never mind that you delete jokes that don't get enough 'thumbs up's on your social profile.

Or that entertainment television has inevitably monopolized your conception of aesthetics, telling you what's in and what's out, while you tell yourself you don't really believe in them, but at the same time you feel embarrassed when other people don't conform to these standards.

All of those things don't matter.

What matters is that when you turn on your car headlights, it's because YOU want to. Not because other people are doing it too.

My Pearly Gate Was A Car Wash

Died in a car crash.

I had nothing when I died. Everyone left me to scrap in the junkyard that was my last few years of living.

Everything except my car.

My car stuck by me as I ascended into the clouds waiting for Accountability and Judgment.

I drove up the Stairway to Heaven. I wonder how many people ever got a chance to say that.

It was a wonderful feeling. That lightheaded feeling that nothing could do you any harm, or even more so, the feeling that you couldn't do any harm to anything.

The exhaust pipes spouted clouds instead of smog. I drove through layers of clouds, and more clouds, and more moisture and more soapy suds drenching my car shiny.

And then there were cherubs - handy with a cloth and a container of polish wax.

My car was getting the VIP treatment. I could see it slowly coming into sentience, its headlights for eyes were more alive than they ever were on mortal Earth. It grinned with its fender for teeth.

"This is it, Michael! Best day ever!", said my car.

St. Peter was waiting at the gates. There was a queue. People waiting for their turn to find out whether it's oblivion or God's Dominion for them.

"Hey, Ford!", St. Peter exclaimed. "Vroom on in! The sky's yours my sedan friend!"

I smiled.

Until we reached the gate and I was asked to step out of my car.

"You were a blasphemer and a murderer, sir. I'm afraid we can't let you in"

And there were suddenly no clouds below me. No solid surface to stand on. I was falling.

Falling.

Jesus fucking Christ.

By Your Leaves

She crept into the valley,
With her hands across her chest,
"I am now awoken,
By the scurry of the pests"

She took my hand and told me,
That I am the one she needs,
As the wind and sunlight,
Smirks at the scene and heed.

We never die from sadness,
Only the action that it breeds,
Embarrassment scares us,
But only ignorance defeats.

And the sound of hurried man,
Play on across the ears,
Of calm and complacent boys,
Who's counting down the years.

To when they'll finally see the world,
And say "There goes my girl"
"The one I'm going to marry"
or "Bury with her pearls"

The earth is only thinking now,
For whatever I should be,
A simple wall for every thing,
A floor for those whom are free.

Or for the captured bleeding men,
In chains they trudge along,
I don't need your sacrifices,
Your blood is not my song.

But yet we slay in perpetuity,
Yet by your side I would love to stay,
For eternity.

'Cause trees will sometimes make a fuss,
And fall unto our knees,
Entrapped by all this nature,
And freed only by your leaves.

The Press.

Such a pretty thing to have a reason to feel sad.

Or the wisdom to be mad.

Or the slightly bloody pretensions of sacrificial relief, half-tired half-glad.

While wars go on for miles around, why can't we hear that awful sound?

Headphones. Wear them.

Sphere is what cocoons you and what continuously binds them.

Your deafness.

This is not a call for help.

Or a wake up worthy of two seconds yelp.

This is an elegy.

An adulation.

Oh, such a beautiful thing to have a reason to feel sad.

Instead of having to feel sad for no reason.

My prison.

Rewirings

"Doctor Chaucer, the robot needs you in the emergency unit."

The many footsteps that reverberated throughout the corridor got closer and closer to me.

It was a group of Fixers, claiming to be of the best assistance to me, or that they will be.

I pushed them aside and told them, "He only needs a jolt. I don't need any help."

It was a hospital that housed all types of sentience.

The robots and the humans were sitting side-by-side in the waiting room.

Medicine was a field that went beyond organic beings, but now involved the study of any one with a consciousness.

Basic robot anatomy. Human heartbeats. Robot rotors. Every med student needed to learn the basics of both.

I was a Fixer. A colloquialism to refer to Robot Specialists.

I walked into the emergency unit, expecting it to be empty. But 'lo, a man was sitting by the side of the Robot, holding his hand with his right hand, although the other hand busied itself playing with his hair.

"Both of these people look like they need some serious rewiring", I thought.

Paper Flames

There is a silent harm emanating from those disarmed,
Tracing jet-streams to the monocle of the Man alarmed,
Shooting blanks into the caverns of what once was charmed,
Fields lay unfarmed.

I can't make you love me, Mr. Love Me,
I can't make you stay. When the sphygmomanometer grabs you like the octopus of assistance you suckled your pathetic alien mouth on.
Long gone yesterday

I creep into the crevices of the atoned,
On my own, burying bones.

Destroy the man in khakis,
Later on the man in jammies,
Of empty words,
And loud refrains,
Come hither to these paper flames.

Send the messenger into a pit of cuss,
Or better yet invite them all with lust,
There is a hole they'd like to fill,
With angry men on madder pills.

Fucking snakes, fucking snakes, fucking snakes, fucking snakes, fucking snakes, fucking snakes

Extra, extra READ ALL ABOUT..

Let's gather round the sewing ring,
A thousand echoes of a thousand things,
Of people who can't listen to anything,
But the sound of the midget in'em,
Fidgeting.

Of newer oldies,
And moneyed shame,
Come hither to these paper flames.