When Samantha Met Sammy

Sammy was a small man with a big heart. Samantha was a big woman with no heart at all. Perhaps it was stolen from her, or perhaps she had been born without one. Most likely, she had removed it herself so as to become better at her job. Regardless, it was abundantly clear that it was long gone.

The two of them met at a cage match in South City. He wore a threadbare suit, and she had squeezed herself into something red. She was in the cage, clobbering someone named "Spitfire," and he was in the audience, halfway through a wince, clutching a bag of popcorn.

Across the auditorium, their eyes met. They both felt an instant pang inside. Was it love? Lust? Genetic predisposition? They didn't know. They couldn't even guess. But instantly they both felt the distance between them in a way they had never perceived physical space before: hereafter, no matter how close they could become, they would always feel too far apart.

When the moment ended, it was a jolt for both of them. Samantha was kicked in the head and then placed in an over-the-shoulder arm lock. Sammy spilled his popcorn.

Ghosts of Underland

Alice stumbled upon the unmoving unbody of that which once lived, half become one with the ground she tread on. She screamed and ran, trampling over the corpses of so many more things that she once depended on. When they called to her, she could not look back.
.

In the clearing where the moon lay, Alice sat herself down to rest. A glowing something set itself down beside her, twinkling and sighing. But Alice did not see it, and, when she collapsed of exhaustion, landed upon its delicate frame.
.
Another unmoving dead to haunt the next passerby, two or three more, five or ten, a thousand. We are all trampling, falling, killing machines, filling the world with the death of our passing. It is who we are.

Vanity

I laughed until my sides were sore
I talked until I voice was gone
I slept till I could sleep no more
And I begged for death in the end

I ate until my teeth decayed
I smoked until my lungs dried up
I drank until my liver grayed
And I begged for death in the end

The Man Who Didn't Matter

(You know, everything "poetic" that I've written has been the result of what I can only call "vomiting." Life just builds up in my head until, eventually, I am supposed to be doing homework and words climb out of my head and march to the keyboard. I type like crazy for two minutes. Then later I post said vomit on my blog. Why? Who knows? Who cares?)

Nobody knows

So why speak the words

That everyone wants to hear

Hear them over and over

Televisions, radios and ballpoint pens

Men in suits falling forever in the dark

Wishing for their mothers

Grasping at nothing

Never grown up

Waiting in the empty house

In the chair

A shelf of books you’d never read

A throat of words you couldn’t speak

Because, after all, who are you

And what are they

It’s raining outside

The grass grows but he can’t

Because he’s inside

And the buildlings are full of snakes

Flicking tongues

In his his ears

Maybe someone somewhere sometime

Used the words he’ll never say

But now there’s lots of fish in the sea

And far too much sea for a fish

To know what he’s heard

Day and night and day again

Another swirling mass of somethings

We could never understand

The sand moving beneath us

That we could never grasp

Take the words you hear

Say them again to another lonely soul

Nobody knows you’re a liar

Not even you