Writing Prompt #100 “Anne Sexton”

Anne Sexton Quote

Gravity does not crush me

Though an albatross

It indulges my caprice

Same as any other vice.

I drink gravity for breakfast

It is as real to me as any lover

And believe me

It has fucked me many times.


That’s the way with bones,

Living so close to the marrow,

They cannot but be moved.

A heart is as good a drum

As any and when it loves

The resonance is clear

And frantic like predation.


What a strange thing

It is being human

To have all the answers

And to go about fumbling

Oblivious to all

But the egginesss

Of the human eye.


My spleen grows weary

Of listening

To your relentless chatter

Come to me only

When you are prepared

To push the red button.

I am always afflictive

That’s how the dying live

But death is calm

Like the smile

Of a felon mid martyr.




I honestly was just listening to her poetry so while I chose this quote it was a combination of many things


Wordle #54 “March 30, 2015

Week 55

You are not often beautiful

With dials for eyes

And a sheaf

Of rolled up newspaper for a mouth.

I dwindle beneath the tread

Of your boots

And the clarity of those heel strikes

Is precisely calibrated

To the platitudes of my heart.


My designation being infinitesimal

Through inferior logic

Has given rise to regulations.

I live as a modron

An empty irregular suit

Lacing up your military boots

Polishing and wiping

The blood of which there is

Never enough to sate

Your malicious appetite.




Fairy Tale March 27th 2015, a new world

The journey began with a lecture, the way all utterly preposterous undertakings do. I will summarize that lecture rather than subject you to its entirety.

Destination: Arborea

Climate: Arctic

Description: mountain ranges exceeding in height any found on earth, dense forests with hearty frost-resistant vegetation, 3 moons, highly luminous sun fragments, purple-tinted sky, crystal clear lakes, abundant hot springs

Predators: Everything is larger in Arborea

Dominant Sentient Race: Nephilim

Since we came to visit the Nephilim it stands to reason that I should introduce you.

Physical Characteristics: Tall (7 ft average), brightly colored hair and eyes (more on the hair later), skin color variations comparable to those found in humans, small horn like projections around the eyebrows (males), wings, spots on the shoulders (females), horns (males, more on that later).

Hair Color: Hair color is often an indicator of magical persuasion

White- Weather (air/lightning)

Silver- Ice

Red- Fire/Lava

Blue- Water

Black- Necromancy, Dead Speak

Gold- Alchemy

Green- Earth/Druidic

Purple- Telekinesis, Psychokinesis, Binding

Orange- Magic Resistance, can turn body parts into weapons (mostly males)

Pink- Reanimation, Psychopompary (females)

Multi-colored- Can create pocket planes, travel through other dimensions, and can enter others dreams. If they have silver and pink they can remove things from the dream world (extremely rare)

*Females are more adept at magic.

Horn Size: The Nephilim hierarchy is determined by horn size (satyr, gazelle, ram) females don’t have horns and are thus exempt from the hierarchy. Only males with ram horns and females may assume governmental positions.

Race Life: The Nephilim live in small groups or tribes in the high mountains of Arborea They do not typically marry as they are polyamorous and rarely form close personal friendships among their own kind. The females only become sexually receptive once a year, as a result of this coupled with a high infant mortality rate the females often have large litters. The males are extremely virile, the more high-ranking a male the more females he may mate with during mating season. As part of the mating ritual they fight in fierce battles and participate in other extreme competitions of both strength and intellect to prove themselves.

For hunter gatherers, perhaps surprisingly, education is extremely important. University attendance is mandatory. They have huge lecture halls and massive libraries that rival those found anywhere else in the multiverse. As such it is not uncommon for scholars from other planes to visit. Travelers are welcome with great hospitality and open curiosity. The Nephilim do not even lock their doors lest a guest arrive when they are away (The Nephilim travel extensively). Their rugged landscape, high altitude, and abundant dangerous wildlife make if difficult for other races to survive in Arborea indefinitely and thus they have little competition and risk of invasion. Perhaps because of their high intelligence they do not make weapons of mass destruction, war is between leaders of different tribes, fighting has honor. Their only natural enemy is the The Watchers.

They are philosophical/spiritual but do not subscribe to organized religion. They live in accordance with nature.

Quiet a lengthy summary but the lecture proved difficult to condense in a meaningful way. Now onwards to the journey!

The journey began in a crystal cavern, which by all accounts is the origin of many a mysterious occurrence.

The Party

Name: Mokcyin

Race: Toroct

Position: Mage

Name: Set

Race: Xenos

Position: Familiar

Name: Shiuto

Race: Dragon

Position: Fighter/Comic Relief

Name: Yang

Race: Fenrick

Position: Opportunistic Merchant

And then of course there is me the lone human. As the official translator my utility was nullified on meeting Trias (a Nephilim and linguist we encountered early in our pilgrimage). If you have the misfortune of being born to the Prime Material Plane then you are probably not familiar with these races. Except dragons, everyone is familiar with dragons.

Mokcyin muttered some spell underneath his breath and the portal opened in what had been a nondescript sheet of rock. For those of you who are not familiar with dimensional travel, prepare to have your insides and outsides turned every which way. I threw up immediately on exiting the portal. I was, it turned out, fairly useless and cumbersome in many respects. Arborea is a place that defies description, though I have already done so at length (encase you’re wondering I had a special device in my nostrils that allowed me to utilize the thin air). It was terminally cold. In such temperatures a human female is subject to hypothermia, frost bite, and death (cryogenic stasis perhaps?). We needed shelter. For reasons beyond my comprehension living quarters had not been prearranged. Luckily the Nephilim are a hospitable race. Set transformed into a hawk and went to scout for lodgings. I spent the next 15 minutes engaged in a frantic jig. When he returned the hike began, it was an arduous one through rugged and unforgiving terrain. There was also some climbing involved but having lost consciousness the burden was not shared by me. When I woke we were in the cabin.

The interior walls were irregular and composed of the mountain itself, acclimation was minimal giving the space an almost cave-like appearance. The floor was likewise of stone but the texture was smooth and curiously warm. Sunlight spilled in from the ceiling, drenching the cavity in hazy golden filaments. There were still several hours of dayhaze left. A fireplace stood in the corner and from it hung a cauldron of simmering stew, the smell was otherwordly and mouth-watering. The main room was spacious and lined with wooden book shelves, all filled, all organized by specialty. In the center of the floor there were several large arm chairs made of hides pulled over bone, each laid with a soft blanket, they were facing each other. In the center of the ceiling there was a large ornate lantern (there were no visible cords as the apparatus was powered by magic). Against one wall was a wooden desk, with parchment, fine bone writing implements, and a smaller lantern which mirrored in many respects the overhead light (a facsimile of this light was in every room). In one corner of the room stood a chest, inside there were spices and dried meats. A round table with wooden chairs signified a dining area but there were only minimal cooking implements, plates, and eating utensils all of which were tucked away in a tall cabinet. Although there was a sink there was neither a refrigerator nor a stove. A refrigerator was unnecessary as perishables could be stored outdoors all year (in underground cellars). Food could be cooked at the hearth or as was customary outdoors directly after the hunt.

There were two corridors leading away from the main living area one lead to Kun-Jin’s sleeping quarters (the cabin was not, as it turned out, unoccupied), the other to the bathroom. The bedroom was spacious but contained only a bed and a wardrobe. The mattress lounged luxuriously inside of what looked like a hollowed out tortoise shell. The proportions of said carapace were enough to accommodate four human-sized males. The wardrobe was made of artistically carved wood of a deep purple hew same as all the wooden storage units. The only ornamentation was a set of gazelle-like horns nearly identical to those on Kun-Jin’s head. Nephilim shed their horns only once in their lifetime, a rite of passage and a sign of sexual maturation in males (the budding of wings signifies sexual maturation in females).

Although the house did contain a bathroom with running water it did not contain a bath or shower. Baths were taken outside in natural hotsprings. Bathing was a communal activity but as hot water was so plentiful in the mountains those of a more squeamish or antisocial disposition could still arrange for privacy.

You may be wondering at this point why I came to Arborea knowing that my human constitution was not significantly robust to endure the rugged polar climate. Well the truth is I came for the sake of my curiosity, which is a pitiful excuse but one more compelling than any other.


Our Host Kun-Jin (I made this using the Sims haha)

Kun Jin





Mokcyin, Shiuto, and Yang are my friend’s characters but I am using their names here as I am currently writing a story with her about the Nephilim.


The Dead Bus

It is always the same dream

Whatever the form I feel its birth

The contractions of my pseudo womb

That bruised, pulpy fruit,

That heart of mine

Which stumbles about

As a marionette

In the hands of a child.


A bus stop in the middle of nowhere

Green hills like the kyphotic spines

Of retiring giants.

The destination is always home

But I only know the people waiting

Not the place and lest of all

When it is I am to arrive.


I get on the same bus

And it is always crowded

The faces are only semi-pliant

And always the same vague chastisements

This is not the right line

You are going the opposite way

And the bus will not stop until

The distance is insuperable.


They are resigned, these passengers,

To ride this bus indefinitely

Over roads as sharp and thin

As the edges of scalpels.

Through forests and mountains

Until the end of time

And I having boarded

Must also ride.


The driver flickers in and out

Of existence like a flame.

These willing specters

Folded up in their leather coffins

This terrible journey

That extends through

Both cumulus and sea

Through demolished towns

Into the deepest pits of the human psyche.


My phone does not work

But my tears are as real as pollen

And in my metal garden

My ambulatory sarcophagi

I shall bleed

The most terrible flowers

You have ever seen

Coarse and oily

Like the decapitated hands

Of common laborers

When they are strong

And have fed sufficiently

Their mighty roots

Will break free

Of this possessed machine.


He weaves his flesh in me

His accusations

To displace his madness

I erupt at intervals

Too imprecise to predict.

A cartridge into which the humors

Are summarily dispensed

It is your blood in which I write.

All those empty wakes,

Those almost funerals,

And the black clothes

Worn year after year

In deference to all those

Who have gone before.

The obituaries of strangers

Crush my heart

Because I know that they were loved

And if not loved in life

Then loved by me in distillation. 


A scapegoat must suffer in kind

Must suffer far worse

If they are to serve.

The night rises up,

A murder snapping

The branches that hold

My selfness in.

An actress in a pinch

I cannot escape these conundrums

A battle for reason

Always escalates.

I am delicate, priceless

Like a mandala but more intricate

With colors that defy nomenclature.


I am not your enemy

Though my lacerated ego

Implies otherwise.

There can be no answer

For I have possessed every question

And found nothing to explain you.

No word capable of withstanding

Your definition

Your ghoulish vowels

Your shiv-riven consonants

There is no language for you.


I have had the flu this week (hubbie and daughter too) and I have been unusually sleepy. I didn’t even think I would write given how behind I have gotten!

Heeding Haiku With HA: Spring

I am running out

Of oxygen to restrain.

Winter even though

Inundated refuses

To open her spiteful fist.


I have completely forgotten how to write tanka and haiku (I felt like an eel trying to describe a pair of pants)! There is a saying in reference to Sweden “Winter is always coming” and I believe it. Every year I feel I wait and wait for Spring to start (it seems I wait until it is technically summer lol). Though not true, from my perspective and my experience of being born to a significantly warmer climate Sweden seems to have 2 seasons. Winter which is 9 months and embodies (Winter, Autumn, and Spring) and Spring (which is what they refer to as Summer). I am trying not to hold my breath in anticipation of warmer weather but I am so eager for it.




Your fingers usurp

Each cicatrix

As soon as it is laid.

They must have hated

Themselves bitterly

To behave as they did.

It is hard to see the target

In the wreckage of war

And in the end we all have

A bulls-eye within our breast

So magnetic and insidious

That it would draw in

Even those arrows

Not specifically intended for us.


There is always

An audience for humiliation

They line up like teeth

Hoping to witness

A predicament more formidable 

Than their own.


The crowd thickens

A piece of cloth,

A tuft of hair,

A cheap locket

Whose significance

Is unscathable, pocketed.

Death is not a souvenir.


I can only drink

The superficial blood

The pain at your core

Is not for me to swallow.

I can claim to understand

But no one,

No matter how sympathetic,

Will ever live the reality

That you alone have defined.


Went for simple today

Photo Challenge #53, March 24, 2015

Marbels Caleb


I besmirch your immaculate parchment

The gossamer cloak that hides

All that is preposterous and prohibited

Within your insouciant grin.

There are secrets

I do not wish to tell

For the pleasure is in captivity,

In the specter and the elevation

Of divinity that enigma imposes.


Your tears are the ejaculate

Of an oppositional cosmology.

I would pour vinegar in your wounds

Rather than watch you spoil.

A stray hair admonished with a sweep,

A lip ripened in a coffin of teeth.

Consciousness flowers

From your promiscuous veins.


I’ll wake in the abdication of dreams

A thief with counterfeit claims

Unable to distinguish the numbers

On the clock in the ruin of twilight.

Where is my alveolus?

My glowing white core?

It is not me but the world

That is upside down.




Wordle #53 March 23, 2015 “Puzzle”

Week 54

To whom do I owe

These explicit polarities?

Face first I cartwheel

Around the moon

Gaining velocity

Regolith prying

The retina’s corridors.

Cremation is always audible

Even when self-induced.


All I see is

The achromatized shadows

Of my former designations.

Sensing hell’s approach

Does not diminish the force

Of invasion.

The magnitude of my fragility

The insolent pirouetting of my heart

Is a persistent theme

And I moan like a hag

From behind the silk

Of a borrowed kimono.


I lift each piece delicately

As if opening a vault

And those sardonic corpses

Peering eyeless

Into the halo

Do not stir though

They have been summoned.

There are parts off ourselves

We ought not burn. 




Would I burn out my throat

If the solvent were assured

To take nothing but my voice?

Mud well passed the knees

My primal belly exhales

The fascist grit,

The necrotizing erythrocytes

No one wants to heal

From the inside.


My hollows are deep

Echos scamper from

The barge of my throat

Who is the source

Of these recursive screams?

Is it one of us?


Death is not always obvious

But it is persistent.

Sometimes a ghost

Is just a ghost

Sometimes it’s remorse

And nothing spoils youth

Like remorse.


The rudiments of dreams

Blister behind my eyes,

Those ungodly windows

There is much in this life

That is only supposed

But if not for imagination

I wouldn’t know anything at all.