catbeazle
I went into the bathroom for a shave. Somebody stared back from the mirror. Somebody with secrets that were keeping him sick.
the messenger stood in the doorway, exhausted, breathless and reluctant to let go of what was in his hand; even he knew the pain those simple words scrawled on paper might bring.
These were the fields where, he knew, lay the bones of generations of men like him. Hard-workers, tillers of the land and as mortal, as passing as the clouds that scudded now overhead, toward the west.
it was cold enough to crack stones and split the trees and yet over a hundred men and women had stood for hours at the gates of the factory, stamping frozen feet in ill-fitting shoes, their breath looping up into the bright, cold night air, all in solidarity with the men who had lost their jobs. To lose a job meant to lose one's home and to lose one's home meant to die, frozen like a statue in one of the city's parks. If that could happen to one man, it could happen to all of them. So to feel the bite of winter now, side by side with the workers one saw every day but did not know by name, to breathe the hard and glittering air was a special kind of suffering; not the suffering of a man alone, but a unified response to the capitalism that would have each man die alone, under the hard and bitter stars.
pixel(s): noun. tiny elves who live inside computer screens. They represent different shapes and images by arranging themselves accordingly and by wearing one of three coloured hats: red, blue or green.
a flea can flee
but having fled
becomes
a flead,
or so I read.
I pushed slowly against the closet door. It pushed back, slowly. I kicked it hard and fast but someone on the other side kicked back equally hard. I decided on a gentler approach. On hands and knees I eased the door open and reached inside with my pocket flashlight. Leaning against the door I was able to open it up enough to fit my head inside. Something hit me hard, square in the face and my head snapped back and hit the doorframe. It wasn't a fist. It was a smell. A smell like no other, like corruption itself had begun to decompose. I had found who I was looking for, slumped in the corner, his legs jammed against the door, like a song and dance man about to run up the wall and flip backwards, like they do in the movies.
I was three months late.
there once was a prince named charming
whose jokes were really alarming:
in public quite gracious
but in private, salacious
especially the one about farming.
I went to collage but couldn't stick at it.
by analysis
and synthesis,
he realises
the genesis
of his antithesis
his nemesis
is.
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writing since 2012 · 26 entries · 26 days shown up
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the words catbeazle reaches for
hardhandslowlyagainstlightreacheddoorstooddustkickedeyesbucketairwateritselfwindow