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And its black gooey tendrils run up your side as you sleep, and in your otherwise-comfortable slumber soft pricks rouse you, and pincers pinch, and you await, unfairly stuck in the terror the borderlands; that bloodcurdling moment from the sickly world of fantasy to your ant ridden existence, staring outwards and not seeing, but only feeling them crawl.

Posted By Cyrus Willoughby On 02.16.2012 @ 7:09 pm

The festivities ended with a kick of yarn right to the kisser. People had been writhing, the DJ had been pompadouring, and the awkward had been mingling. The stage was set, the song was sung, and a tempest of yarn fell from the ceiling in a fit of entangled rage.

Posted By Cyrus Willoughby On 02.12.2012 @ 8:36 am

“To photograph from a tine” Said the man in a V-neck sweater that had, in fact, read Proust, “is to express a given aesthetic in a mode of subtlety.” And with that the room went quiet with the silence of the deaf, and the people were brought to erudition, and the esoteric was made light again, and the man remembered the frozen instant of glory before the next…

Posted By Cyrus Willoughby On 02.05.2012 @ 5:52 pm

Paralyzed and analyzed, our hero reverberated. Shrink said to him, over and over again in ritualistic repetition, “What do you do when everything is taken care of?” Our hero dissociated into and away from himself, leaving and leaving and going off from the land where everything is A-Okay.

Posted By Cyrus Willoughby On 02.04.2012 @ 2:25 pm

Mr. Li Bert was born of two names and two races. His Li came from Asia and his Bert from England. He called Moscow home, as a sort of compromise between the opposing geographical interests. And, of course, in that antipodal contradiction of names came a unity; LiBerty.

Posted By Cyrus Willoughby On 01.20.2012 @ 9:12 am

Along a long and desolate dirt road there lay a solitary item, fat and squishy in its texture, and porous in its notability. Into this little sponge would dirt flow, and out of would come steam and water.

Posted By Cyrus Willoughby On 09.01.2011 @ 6:20 pm

and its pulsating gaze offered worlds to me. In that maw of possibility where anything could happen but nothing ever did, I saw the true face of chaos: future possibility forever rendered in dripping invective by present discontent.

Posted By Cyrus Willoughby On 08.30.2011 @ 6:18 pm

In the misty tiff of Johann Boondock’s dream, he was the winner. There, in that cloudy fluff of wonder, the sweat never hazed his vision, despair never clogged his arteries, and he always won the fight.

Posted By Cyrus Willoughby On 08.29.2011 @ 4:22 pm

estru estru in estrus. Without passion and only with perspective and context and all the observational skills that four years of premed and eight of med school give you, I stood by and watched her writhe in estrus. Anarchic lust and postponed guilt.

Posted By Cyrus Willoughby On 08.27.2011 @ 9:00 am

From the final stint of match spark I ran. It struck the rough with surface precision and imbued chaos, chaos that conflagrated the remnants of my exile.

Posted By Cyrus Willoughby On 08.14.2011 @ 10:36 pm

On approach, the wings began to shake. Watching those long sheets of thin metal flap like tissue in against the current, I thought of when I was little and liked to pretend I was an airplane. I would run around parks, arms akimbo, twirling in the grass, forming winding outlines of amoeba along my imaginary flight path.

Posted By Cyrus Willoughby On 03.22.2011 @ 9:41 pm

I was all gymed up and ready to go. Sitting in that sterile sarcophagus of a math class, my purpose and soul intermixed to siphon off into the insatiable pools of imagination – in this case, an imagination bent towards a universe of sweaty towels, greasy floors, air muggy with the perspiration of the overweight, and the forever unattainable jiggling of booty-shorted bodacious babes.

Posted By Cyrus Willoughby On 03.18.2011 @ 6:38 am

The swarm of bees zoomed out the commode like a diarrhetic nightmare. Ralph jumped and hollered out with the pain of a thousand years hemorrhoids, “AHHHH”

Ralph spent the next six months recovering in the intensive care unit of the Hospital. The damage done to his nether regions was irreparable, leaving his excrement to perpetually and uncontrollably siphon out of him in an abyssal plastic tube.

Posted By Cyrus Willoughby On 03.09.2011 @ 9:05 am

Cling-clang ripples down the dragging rage of that silvery length off into nothing. I don’t know where it ends, I look down and see silver against nothing – clangs against nothing – holes against nothing – locks against nothing – coursing into the abyss.

Posted By Cyrus Willoughby On 02.27.2011 @ 9:40 pm

He cuts and cuts and cuts as it grows and grows and grows. He thinks that I’ll have it forever – what a greedy bastard. I won’t. I know it, he knows it; the whole world knows it. They talk and quaff and jive and live but I sit and watch myself drift down in clumps and bunches, scorned and burned against my frozen linoleum hell.

Posted By Cyrus Willoughby On 02.24.2011 @ 7:02 pm

I feel. I feel like I have never felt before and I feel into the depths and the superficiality and the histrionic self-conscious awareness that the world constantly takes away from the table. And no matter how big that table gets, no matter how many places are filled, no matter how luscious the offerings are, no matter how shiny and bright the varnish is on the wood, I will always say no. I will always refuse my place, and I will always walk away.

Posted By Cyrus Willoughby On 02.04.2011 @ 4:54 pm

Out of my wrist grew a mighty wrench, bright red with a silver glow, cranking itself out into the world against or in accordance with my will, my mechanical will.

Posted By Cyrus Willoughby On 02.03.2011 @ 12:00 pm

Again that lonely block of despair and supercilious angst. Again that abyss of self-consciousness and the histrionic, where no one but the depraved and brilliant take refuge and find themselves slammed, slammed up against the mushy-feely rawblack wall of that recurring room.

Posted By Cyrus Willoughby On 02.02.2011 @ 10:17 pm

The image resonates with the bloodblack room of the stars looking seeing prying into the depths of heaven we gain gain gain the void and find a blip, a smudge and a smidgen on our radiant ulcer of a cave.

Posted By Cyrus Willoughby On 02.01.2011 @ 6:35 pm

I felt a small crop of lint against my belly. It came as a hint from the spiraling fan above. The minty air in between my nude stomach and the endlessly gyrating contraption above provided the only emptiness which I could see, the only emptiness in which I could take solace.

Posted By Cyrus Willoughby On 01.31.2011 @ 8:53 am

The room dropped with the hard thud of a bang of drunkenness. It enveloped him with the intensity of an ephemeral bloom of love, leaving him stunned, on the edge of the world, contemplating the wasteful vengeance before him.

Posted By Cyrus Willoughby On 01.28.2011 @ 9:38 pm

We took refuge in the chilly, hollowed out furnace. Ensconced in the bitter embrace of nighttime, I reflected on the irony of our predicament. It had certainly been a stroke of good fortune to find the furnace, but to hide in it for warmth? What a strange irony of fate that we found ourselves seeking refuge in a device meant to destroy.

Posted By Cyrus Willoughby On 01.23.2011 @ 11:07 am

The hunt is on. I take a seat on the rough leather of my chair, and get watching. The lines unwillingly drags itself across the white, eternal plain, marked only by intermittent spots of black symbolism. In pursuit of a large black rod, it creeps upon it, eternally and inevitably; the endless sport of time.

Posted By Cyrus Willoughby On 01.17.2011 @ 1:26 pm

and what a whim i find What a whim i find on the floor, on the ceiling, on the walls, and in the air. For indeed, we are coated in a thick felt layer of whims. We swim in them, bathe in them, and dry ourselves with whims. we do not, however, always let these substances guide ourselves.

Posted By Cyrus Willoughby On 01.14.2011 @ 11:59 pm

The widows feel the whims. Oscillating gently, back and forth, with the calm vibrations of the willow tree, the recently widowed take every whim to name their lives as meaningful against the arid and bleak backdrop of their husband’s untimely death. Whims.

Posted By Cyrus Willoughby On 01.14.2011 @ 12:45 pm

Summer is a wonder from which there is no escape. Who knows what can happen in the summer? Who? Who among us has the prescience, the foresight, the clairvoyance, the brains, the brightness, or the pluck and sheer masculinity to claim what could occur in such a brutally vibrant time of the year? Who?

Posted By Cyrus Willoughby On 01.13.2011 @ 10:01 pm