I finished one of my favorite short stories so far, "GRAVE GORE Infestation". I'm fucking exhausted but at least I finished it. I uploaded it to youtube with a pdf of the full thing

i sleepy as shit

Twisted Bridge

I feel the distance in your eyes

The forward years are played

And the scolding forms are replayed

The tips of your embrace

A rejoice made to stay

But then turned away

Touch the fire

Feel the distance in your face

The distance in your eyes

The making face that screams turning still

The solemn that makes me replay

The wonders that made me stay

In your eyes

I saw god

You inside me

A sacrifice made for the distance in your eyes

Beauty unobtainable

Powers burning handles

Yelling for gentile prevail

Touch the light

Feel the distance at your pace

Kiss the demon in your mind

Spitting distance to the sky

Never spitting poison in your eyes

Yet ruthlessly eating at your kind

Feel your price

Stealing your find

Pressing still in the face of promiscuity

Under deep excrement

I still ache for those founded eyes

The distance in those eyes

I long for the distance

I want to press my face to the fuzz

Feeling the longing of those eyes

The distance

Screaming vanity

Power to the voices

Yielding bytes to a touch with reality

The feelings are found

In the touch of your eyes

The press of those minds

The feelings inside

They sing to pry me

I feel the distance

I need the distance

The distance in those eyes

The feels begotten

Deep inside mine

Beast, O beast, all the more pity to see, why beast beloved, is it always mimicry?

When I breathe

I see me

As long as I’m looking through a lens

When I see me

Unless I’m looking through a lens

I see you

Like a massacre, your body is frightful and peers of denial;

She knows what she wants, she stares with intent and catches her breath when she hears your snare. It’s like she has no soul, nevertheless lost at the sight of someone she met who was stealing her friend. They get out of the body in soulful exuberance and strain for a form of a baby-like clueless, who has no clue what is wrong or what’s right in the middle, but she keeps up her clue with her flu-like emergence. She’s a cute little broody and is adorable in care with the kitty on display like a high in its tower. Of course, I care for the taste of impunity, and for nothing but nothing I feel, those lips feel so coercion, coordinating, and even indoctrinated.

Your just a jester, O you fool for that glimpse at a picture that is far from pasture,

For what is happening today is a busy one. The week is as gaudy as it is hectic as the wind is going but the cracks in the figure are fucking high in observation and the only reason I call for you is to seek the midnight falling. The tears are all made up for rats or their soul and they salt up the cake with a baby like an indulgence and I press my face close because I’m afraid and that fear is what keeps me running at bay, you indulge me in the acts of offing myself, telling me of the sharps that line all your shelves, all the tables that are covering the linen filled gild of human identity. Now long lost, unable to be still.

Moving graceless with a quiet pace.

Heated, you showed me in frightful delight. I was happy, but to say more realistic, I was alive. You killed me and drained me of life and happiness. So to see you make a face was the happiest day of my fucking life. You were soft and cold, you were warningly old, you tugged at my shoes and screwed holes in my bones. It’s just a fix for me at this point, I can see it, I feel it, the faces are a hoax. even so, I couldn’t give meaningful heed, my flying thing, you ugly thing, are my one true component. You’ve conditioned me, remade me in your brightful new picture and I couldn’t live a day without you. Because you are so beautiful, you beast.

Never will I walk in your steps and wordlessly shoulder for a minute longer

Your multiple faces have brought me a lot like a crazed idiot with senseless sensitive bracing in captivity I cannot bring myself to death in a help awakened coffin and with you, in my dreams, I still wake up sweaty but lifeless, you drink with my friends, you scream in my ear, you play with my hair, you spit in my food, you cuddle into midnight, you pay no care, you hate me but do you? Or do you hate that you don’t have me anymore? Or am I the crazy, the senseless bracing cavity with the cause in his rot and soul is my snared and the snakes in my face and the ears in my hair, the beast in my life and the cause of my miscarriage, the cat in black and the voice that screams and scares, the truth is wrong and the wrong is the same, the axes are startled to find you staring in stand and the straights or all caught and my face is in knots and the slips are all skiing and my legs in all gone, I’m stuck to the floor so hands in the cross I’m watching for death to make is breathe in brest, careless in happy that I go and back from the takeaway and the relax in satasfax is awake in my mystery. I want you to stop and I want to go on but the voices, they claw at the call and corner my interns, they’re caught at the moment and interdiction in state and they’re trying to get out of the house and they are all vermilion fucked.

Never the real you; talking from the heart and not the mind. This is a form of pardon– reforming want is hard to rejoin.

Hello

And this is a piece of soft, warm paper

Cold and baron with a full capping wasteland

Places width, never knowing where the scene was once set

For things are only forward

Away from the faces that fronted their mutiny

And shiver forevermore

Charlatan’s suffering importance

Charlatan’s beading precedence

Worth receding; Weeping with exhausted heaving

Charlatan’s plunder

Charlatan’s wonder

Chanting unconcealed

Incanting; life concealed

A chirp in the eye of the cyclone

Begotten of loadstone

Blighted desperation

Seen merely through a knot

Departing from thought

I witness your struggle

I can discern your plight

Don’t let it be for naught

See through the spite; let respiration rise!

Charlatan’s lifeline

Charlatan’s able mind

A trail-up to the climactic recess

Was nothing but an uncontained depress

A vagrant walking, fighting through the heat stress

Colorful, varied terms to say

You were drowning

And I was nothing besides a beholder

Vividly, I can recall the canting and chanting

The remarks of endearment that were simply half meant

The anxiety in your voice; the voices who enunciated that, “They’d love nothing more than to deprive your flimsy skull.”

Charlatan’s high-hand

Charlatan’s wails without retire

Charlatan’s draining temperament

Charlatan’s painting dictation

Blockaded a figure; laying tautly in the hole

A hole topped with soot and putrid mold

Disgusting, filthy, and offensively abhorrent

Such a shoddy dwelling

For an individual of such order

Charlatan’s lordship

And quavering squalidly

Keen to only see the absolute poorest

Lacking the strength

Laying on ignorance’s doorstep

All Charlatan can do is stare through the dirty hole, snoozing with daylight

A scornful mockery

Laborious endorsement

Shamefully ill fortuned

Bellowing stillness; sober and sound but alas

Weak

Stage 1 - I HATE YOU, MONSTER

Raping tears that grace this translucent vassel. Your eyes, god. All yours. Conjuring at it, so steamingly sensual and comedically dark in its candlelit haze but all I know for sure is that you have my head in a lock so entrapped, so ensnared, so closed off from the outer everything all I breathe is what is desired and all I say is to commend you and your angelic figure. “OH HOW FIT YOU ARE, YES THE GREATEST OF THEM ALL.” I exalt as my bludgeoned head begins to yell in hysterical confusion, “I HATE YOU, MONSTER. I HATE YOU.” But nevertheless, it couldn’t matter less, because wounds cannot speak, no matter how much you slice.

Stage 2 - Slumped down without escort

Akin to how many alike would see him sitting alone in voiceless corrosion, you could still nevertheless taste the sense that he’s in immense unrecognized pain. That pain he too would be enduring thanks to your hyperventilation of words like incantations of inconsideration are yet an affirmation to his lapse in self-confirmation. Aka the wrists that are so bladed with sharps and the blood that sizzles like bacon. Grasping the headless torso on a yellowed pantie hoe is a freaky brain strain, to state the most undersized of complaints.

Stage 3 - Brawny Jupiter

Braze, you scrape for the sake of my soul. A pitiful brant you could say; like it’s some sort of holler of victory against me. Like I’m gonna fall back and twiddle as you harvest my corpse for your failing art projects. IT’S INSANITY!! What are you doing? What are YOU doing to ME?! I brace my body for an impact silent and graceful, and just as expected it falls light and peaceful.

Stage 4 - Scorpion Tail

Scorpion tail,

Oh, you poor little scorpion tail.

You squeeze at the toothache and are quenched by the pain.

The darkness inside you,

The gloaming darkness that butchers me to say but I worship it.

Hesitant it may be but the hunting jumbles of equality are miserably powerless, negligibly boundless, grossly uncountable like the blades of grass beneath your talons.

The dashing harshness of the blade comes closer like a threat but indeed do I welcome it,

Such steadfast and bountiful sunlight is its presence to me!

Please come closer, poise in motion I prithee for your compliance, 

This is me on my all fours,

PLEASE SNUFF OUT MY LAMENTABLE MISERY

Stage 5 - Stage 5

Oh. Didn’t you say that once or twice before?, those lines; they sing to me that's why I remember those brightful words of flagrance. Get out of here with your veins, get out of here with your pride, quiet down your battered wives, confess to your reprieve and take lust at the thought of relief, jest at the center and spoil the egg that feeds that brazing snout, carry the hound that waddles away from the families burning wreckage, watch as your willow; dear little willow, is summented into the forsaken ground yellowed; misting never vigorous no longer, infest your granite regretfully pleading, opening my eyes to your voicing, your needing, making love to the ground that I call my god but in reality, I’m just fucking a cheap little slut, collapse into sunder rip wholes in the surface rejecting your sins is singing your progress, yawning from exhaustion; breathes, heavy combustion, the brattiness of those eulogies is a camaraderie of tarnished irony. 

Halves in dimension. You are standing in space, you wave yourself a greeting and can hear his relief. Utmost posture, graceful and quiet as the water is peaceful, he stares up at me and I stare back at him. And this time, with him in my eyes, I feel my grafted exterior finally reprieve.

Stage 6 - Colored life, newlywed thrive

He, and him only, was standing at the border of a gorgeous revelation. A course of mentality that tickled sentients so eternally ensnared but now, praying at the vista of possessing the liberty he truly felt endowed to. Yet again his sights laid deep, finally opening to the great torments of reality and its harming hand. The absurdity of outer culture may seem so normalized yet it was never questioned. Visually still with the sights of another bringing forecast. But in parallel; cold with a visually fearful fit, he had no such control over it and its unmuted cruelty despite the fact he was also faced steadfastly by the conundrum of all actions being the creation of his own self doing. The becoming of untold humanized features that feel so alien yet so him.

Stage 7 - Vermillion

Travel back in time for just a moment. Meet that cup of love, passion, meaningless featureless happiness that collapsed into this very cup. Under it, you could see that family crest, family. Established, young, steady, and poised with gentle perfection. Yet, it still shows small human imperfections in its hand-made manufacturing. The caressing and care can be felt in its smooth edges and especially at the top of the cup, which has been made to have an edge to lay your lips on. The cup is filled with the fragrance of something bitter-sweet in scent, it looks like Tea. The beautiful blackened look of the tea is comforting to look at; tasting it fills me like a brilliant firework show, so dazzling and pungent it burns the back of my neck as I drink it, but also makes up for it in the rush of activity. The cup is covered in beautiful colors and shows the display of young cardinals perching on a branch together. The colorless parts give you the sense that this is winter, and these birds are hanging close to keep nice and warm. His cup, however, is decrepit. Grasping to every piece, hands shaking as the loose pieces accidentally slice parts of his hand open. The blackened tisane is burning the skin from his shaking hands with tears filling his eyes, continuing to hold to boiling pieces of the shattered cup. “Am I nothing?” Quietly he whimpers to himself beneath sharp breaths. Things were beginning to get hazy, his vision getting fuzzy and daunting to see the cup barely instilled in his hand. 

Hush.

Serenade.

You live not frivolously.

Just then his cup is enveloped into a colored and gorgeous butterfly, fluttering light and free. And for him, he found that he was predestined to never fear graves ever again.

Stage 8 - Death

And gently, I lay at the stip of this bedspread, cold and yet tortured by the warmth of the grasping daybreak. I melt with the peace of the cold, and the..

A king is pointing down. A man marked with a question mark looks vacant; even so, he feels as if the man balancing a wine glass is equal to him. Separate from them, a man: shadowed in black, his body formulates into a male crest. With agency but nevertheless skill, he tears the garbs and sources of comfort from his body. It is only when he is completely naked that he stops. An election of the people here so far, the data being assessed and factored in, but most importantly there were none but 4 people here. No later than 2, a girl with blood coursing down her face streaks into the abode. Visibly bludgeoned; red delicious colored blood, it was so pigmented and young, if you could see it yourself, you could see the life that sprawled in it. Like it was leaping for joy at the assumption of life, to then be snuffed out. Responseless they all were, sitting in this full, but rather a lonely bedroom. Year by year, introductions mean growing numbers. More and more responses left empty, dried up red delicious, monarch’s arm left drowsy and the man balancing a wine glass weak and shaking from keeping still so long. Contribution, honey the chorus of singing priority is at its zenith; and cannot compress the mode of floating. As every interaction follows in its origin, everyone is silent as mice. And as the 5,821st year reaches its climax, one final male focus comes into view. The piano man with his dazzling sparkly suit, his long, flowing hair falls down his figure in such a fashion; it perfectly covers his face but allows the eyes to see his intelligently sharp glasses and his beautifully shined shoes. He focuses on the grand piano in front of him. He then calms his body down, letting his fingers rest on the piano keys, and as he breathes in you can tell that he is about to play. And then the song begins. He begins the leitmotif of Chopin’s 2nd nocturne, playing in repetition the subtle, melancholy B-flat melody, which then catapults into a beautiful major sixth, to then begin immediately back into the melancholy. Over and over, everyone in the bedroom was in awe at the beauty of the soft and soothing, fluttering, caressing sounds of the piano. With such proficiency and heart, he took center stage, his piano being his voice. The zest in his fingers was careful and precise, never a single note was ever a little off, nor distant. It was completely resolute, although no one had spoken a word ever, there wasn’t a sense of orange bitterness anywhere. Perceptions of pain, shattered like long-forgotten history, ready to be forgiven at the first word. The piano man continued to play his melody over and over, 772 times it had played repeatedly before his hands had finally met their recession. And as he finished with sudden abruption, everyone who had more than one working hand burst into immediate applause, a standing ovation that went on for 56 seconds, they were mesmerized by the beauty of the melody, not realizing that some of them had broken whatever they were carrying. The man who was balancing a wine glass had completely shattered it into smithereens. The piano man finally got up from his seat, but unlike the others who came before, he strangely just walked out of the bedroom. Without another note to be seen again. Ambition may have sparked him to leave but nothing is really known truly, a woman with a grafted arm stood in discomfort as her ears began to bleed. This was new, it hadn’t happened before now, but as she began touching her face and feeling the blood pour from her ears others began to notice it too. A man with a desk for a torso and glasses made out of a human scrotum began to notice it as well. And forthwith began to look horrified. The significance of the piano man’s appearance just then seemed almost completely unavoidable. The penalty of his music that to some, if not all, was begotten of emotion. They all in the room looked at the way the man had walked out, and without speaking a word began to pray. They craved to satisfy and be brought to the song of their conductor. Mud contracted faces but was for nothing in the end.