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Tiny Stories: June 2013

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Tuesday, 25 June 2013. Those old men spend their last days. Working on immobile steam engines:. It is some fucking hobby. Saturday, 15 June 2013. Euphoric Flashback (Take 2). Euphoric Flashback (Take 2). Dreamlike an astronaut paced like a spirit. The folk in the forest were chasing their hit. How simple the substance made you an ethereal. You're back on the drug that you thought had all drained. And that kid in the photograph swaggers on stage. Those motorbike engines will scream through the trees.

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Tiny Stories: Tags

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Monday, 22 September 2014. Those who think ‪#‎tags‬ are shallow. Should read some haiku:. Fragmented image in words. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom). Simple theme. Powered by Blogger.

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Tiny Stories: March 2014

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Friday, 14 March 2014. Flow My Liquid God. I'm gonna kill it dead. Bound by an unseen thread. I'm gonna kill it dead. Beneath the rains I'm fed. I'm fed, I'm fed. MY LIQUID GOD FLOW. I'm gonna kill it dead. Leave it a book unread. I'm gonna kill it dead. Beneath the rains I'm fed. I'm fed, I'm fed. MY LIQUID GOD FLOW. I'm gonna kill it dead. Light flees my bandaged head. I'm gonna kill it dead. Beneath the rains I'm fed. I'm fed, I'm fed. MY LIQUID GOD FLOW. Tuesday, 11 March 2014. And wash my mind.

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Tiny Stories: Keyboard Warrior

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Tuesday, 17 February 2015. On the plains of the Internet. Stride forth, brave soul. With a pain that you can't forget. Your words shine like gold. Guide me by the light of your candle. Through the darkest thread. I follow The Warrior's tread. Figure with a thousand names. Walking through the flames. Is born and dies every day. Your belief will fly you far away! You are my shield. Your ultimatum has been sent,. And the foe gallops through the field. And with every post. You strike at the heart of the host.

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Tiny Stories: November 2013

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Thursday, 28 November 2013. Rationality Makes Me Sick. Rationality Makes Me Sick. Well you're so fucking organized. Rationality makes me sick. You trust your brain and trust and your eyes. On good days I throw bricks. About lows and highs. The worst you do is cry. Well you're so fucking sensible. Rationality makes me puke. You can break me down in a crucible. Look me up in a book. About what is right. You march into the light. Well you're so fucking delighted. Rationality makes me vom. The idea should be.

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Tiny Stories: January 2014

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Friday, 24 January 2014. Thousand Year Syntax Tree. Thousand Year Syntax Tree. Subconscious automatic membrane pulse. Aphasic mumbled belief in choice. A thousand year syntax tree. Recursive scan through the grammar. Beating iron with a hammer. Till it comes, total control. And the beast has crept out from its hole. Its muzzle digging for the fruit. The one obsession claims the brute. With reddened eyes and shredded paws. The blood drips slowly from its claws. Taking control through sacrifice. And when I...

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Tiny Stories: Meaningless Sex

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Tuesday, 17 February 2015. Why I'm not going to stay? It's not ze lack of love. It is ze lack of today. Do you think I am dumb? I have two PhDs! When I open my legs. It is like ze tree opening its leaves. Ze lack of today? Ze lack of today. Is a - uhhhh. Important thing to know. Please stop looking at me. You are like one of these homeless. Or some stupid monk. With a cross on his neck. Ze lack of today? No more than ze bison chewing grass. Or ze comets flying past. I am afraid it is too early for.

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Tiny Stories: Mortar and Pestle

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Friday, 23 May 2014. My Friday night ritual. I've been crushing on you for years. Dressed up in your latex suit. The red light gleaming off your boots. I'll see you again in Xanadu. The dead will rise. You'll see your mother's eyes. For the first time. Takes off your prison smock. Cleared of your crimes. Time is always relative. The extract filters through the sieve. I still feel your lips upon my face. Bitter as a poison leaf. More certain than true, just, belief. Darling, I'm floating your way.

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Tiny Stories: December 2013

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Monday, 23 December 2013. Less Skeleton Than Soul. Less Skeleton Than Soul. It's hard to accept peace in your life. Like a pool collecting. Where once was a torrent of strife. You'll fit through the keyhole. Now you're less skeleton than soul. And what you see in that chamber. Looks so dead and old. All you need is the money for beer. Will let your conscience walk away clear. You'll fit through the keyhole. Now you're less skeleton than soul. And what you see in that chamber. Looks so dead and old. It fe...

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Tiny Stories: July 2013

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Tuesday, 9 July 2013. When we were young we looked to. For pleasure and for pride. E tried to climb your. Thorns stabbed our sides. Older then, we looked again. But now for fuel and frame. We thought to cut your trunk. For we will ever fail. And the dire wind that drove us home. Filled your autumnal sails. The only fruit, those dried up leaves. Blown from your dreary tree. We catch between a string of sighs. The village spat until you moved. To dribble on the town. The mangle of the city clamped shut.