misty-mumblings

[misty-mumblings]

Another Jimly banger

i don't have much to say

but we will go until the day

in which light collapses night

and we all bask in the delight

your view marls my rites

and everything predisposed, enlightens

it brightens and frightens

all the sorry souls for a choir righteous

and I don't know anything, there's more to say

one time and one moment there will be

there will be a day for we

in which unbound and truly sound

to roam free fields all amore

and our souls soaken

and what has been broken

will be replaced without disgrace

no shards stay glued into place

I just want to see your true right face

hold and you and know a mental taste

feelings reimbursed but the love is unchanged

and I know that you don't know

and I fear of being alone

with the thoughts of it all

dancing in a ball

alone in a broken rhythm

feels like a schism in the mind

when all you tried is blind

and when you truly see

there's nothing but weeds

and I don't know what to think

don't know who to even meet

and eventual glory to seek

I just want your hand

despite the brazen land

I don't have much left to care

not a saviour or a messiah

just a person there

like a sun made out of flesh

wish to behest

the basking rays

ones that don't betray

but all this penning in a tower

makes the fool lose sight of all

the world is just a fall

and it seems easier when your small

I walk alone among this hall

it's not inviting but there's a call

that somewhere very far

I might reach over the wall

and finally in a lasting moment

like an ill magician

get cured of it all

yet we know it's not that way

temperance unreceived

I'll always be a star

before your embalming moon

the night is very soon

and chariots will burn

and everything to churn

stand before your judgement

and receive a bitter justice

to walk two roads again

with you as a greater friend

[misty-mumblings]

What if I’m Simply a Dirty Earthworm? What If I’m a Dirty Man, What Then? What If I’m Nothing But a Sexless Worm? by Megan Borocki, published in Beaver Magazine

[Text ID: Do you still think of when I was small catching earthworms in my socks, face smashed in the mud, my soft fingertips digging for wet bodies to throw at my brother? I still miss your voice. Do you remember when you would hold my wrist above my head hissing grow into a clean woman? /End ID]

[misty-mumblings]

By: silas denver melvin

[misty-mumblings]

an illusion, voices speak mind filled with perfusion illegitimate fates, one wants to orchestrate forever bound to national stakes unwilling in flesh but ever not in the spirit standing alone among ghosts i wish to be unbound by fate take no arms on my sides and walk in an uniform lonesome to see the face of one whom plagued the existence with the ideas of belonging and i will be scared and flee but one day i swear upon thee that i will be free

[misty-mumblings]

[misty-mumblings]

You meet god and she's mostly dead fish. You ask her why and she says most of the world is dead fish, and she's made herself to appeal to the most common denominator, the everyman funnyman comedy show that runs for eleven seasons but with the entire universe in mind. You ask her how much of the dead fish is your fault, she says it's far less than you'd think, in the grand scheme of things. You ask her if you matter at all. If you can do anything. She shrugs her rotting shoulders and says mattering is a made-up concept, like life, but sure, you can matter if you want to, on some scale. She has many scales. She doesn't know what you mean by 'anything', but you can do everything you can. You ask her if it's enough. She says there's no base requirement for deserving to exist. She's smoking a joint and the smoke filtering out of her gills gathers and forms gas giants and red dwarfs. You ask her if there's any hidden secrets of the universe you should know and she says it's not a secret if she tells, plus it's fun to let you figure it out yourself. You ask her if any of your questions were right questions and she says you worry about being right so much it might keep you from fucking around, which is as close to meaning of life as she ever bothered to make. You don't ask but she says she loves your hair, also your whole being, also your planet. She says she figured out what love is yesterday and is trying it out, which explains the ten thousand rainbows and sudden influx in rains of fish. She offers you a drag of her joint and you wake up half past midnight behind a chain restaurant clutching a smoked salmon. The new stars are winking like they're in on some joke and you're sure if you try hard enough you'll remember what it is.

[misty-mumblings]

I push through the crowds of the ringed floors of the orbital viewers, not giving a care for the presenting match. I find the callous face of the Vicar, surrounded by his bandit court and tributary entertainers of flesh, but he is always around in any locale.

Merely there to haunt my mind hoped I would have found that soul-bound person near him, but I am relieved such is not the case. Yet to my frustration, I could not find that person, I never got their name, address, or their face really, it all just happened so quickly. I searched the crowds of the arena until everyone left. What a lost opportunity, why did I let them go? I felt a spark in their eyes as we looked atop the roofs, I felt a true sense of companionship, of understanding as we pondered the stars. It's impossible patterns and quantity, they seem more beautiful under their breath.

As I stand outside, and look at the moons, I feel the desire to surrender myself to the elements. Once again alone and worthless. A bitter tear rolls from my eye and blinds me with the reflection of the city lights. I feel like I've lost something... maybe I gained something in return, an exchange of souls. It is a bittersweet memory, but maybe they do also think of me the same way. Maybe they forgot about me completely, I am just glad to have met them. But now every night I look at the moon, I think of them, as an idea. What could have bloomed from it? I don't know who they are or what they even looked like, I wasn't ready to meet someone. I was not in the right situation in my mind, I just enjoyed the lavish freedom of being there, with someone. We held hands as the scenes passed. It was the only thing I can remember of them. If only that serenity could have been an eternity, everything is an ever-rotating mess once. I just want that peace again, the peace of being understood in these Frozen wastes, maybe i would wander no more for them. I'd do anything to feel such a comfort, maybe it's a hedonistic dream but I care not for who I was trained to be, I want to be there for somebody, a true sense of belonging. Not an abandoned mistake.

[misty-mumblings]

No one wants to work anymore. All kids these days want is to physically transform into animals. Bones cracking, breaking, splintering apart, stitching together into exhilaratingly new shapes. Hair, all kinds hair, various fluids and oils and whatnot. Ragged-lip maws dripping with alien teeth, crowning in teething agony like the birth of an infant god. Gore-streaked visages howling in pagan delight by the pale light of the moon, etc. No work ethic. He who makes a beast of himself takes away the pain of clocking in tomorrow

[misty-mumblings]

To stand before the glass

and not see myself a face

to know I won't last

but never choose to lay waste

like the struggling waif

chastised and belittled

standing on an edge

thinking of being little

when you're nothing at all

it feels so liberating ,

when you're nothing at all

there's no way to live.

But standing tall

in front of the ocean

stuck in all motions

in the midst of reigniting

feels nauseating and unenlightening

always moving always morphing

the artist never tires

the artist never wakes

stuck in quotidian days

wishing for immediate end

by the chair or by the gun

I'll be standing there

Wish I saw someone in the glass

A face I could recognize without distress

a way to understand oneself

To cast a shadow on another

and be open from the shelf.

Be myself's greatest lover

and find peace all within.

Sometimes I a loathe the brother

who still roams the minds within.

wish he would become another

someone proud to be him.

[misty-mumblings]

ah but to wander free

without a fleeting mind

and to think that it would be kind

could unbind the beaten path

and become a fucking lass

[misty-mumblings]

Sometimes I invite Heraclitus to tea

Yearning hurts

and what release

may come of it

feels much like death

But most yearn

still

and moreover you

with heeded wisdom

seek to throw

want off your shoulders

like a worn or dusty cape

and blinded you

do not see

that in seeking

you yearn for change

a yearning for lack of yearning

The truth being

of course

that yearning like death is grief

and only ends with

acceptance.

[misty-mumblings]

A lament for the birth of lampposts.

Pixel skin stretched tight in faux midnight. A thousand miniscule grey tone stars, and where digital words print onto digital page spring dazzling galaxies of red, green, and blue. We severed the relationship our forebears brokered, long before they even donned limbs and scrambled ashore. Edison and his ilk, in the name of progress, of liberty raised eternal sconces in the pitch. They heralded the new incessant micro-solar palinopsia as watchmen against the tyranny of the night. Such men did not understand Nott’s swirling sombre gifts. Men like Edison still do not, reaching as they might into the oblivion beyond our world while being the very cleavers cutting the earth from the sky. We chose to erect lighthouses three to ever street corner, so that we could bathe in eternal mid-day and in doing forsook the stars, replacing them instead with a steady off-black grey, an endless unplugged computer monitor.

[misty-mumblings]

To his target.

Did it feel like freedom?

when Zeus split your chest.

And what was it that you did

to incur the wrath of the sky?

Was it a word spoken in blasphemy?

Or a challenge, painfully answered?

I doubt that.

All of you reach toward the clouds

so why where you the one He chose?

Or did you offer?

Calling back to rumbling thunder

and found yourself illuminated.

Your new configuration holds open

the moment of explosive impact

carved from your very bones.

Or is the expression more...

nonchalance?

A shrug toward the sky.

I bet it feels smug

to know that your resilience

is indomitable.

To spit into the face of Zeus

with warm fresh blood

and the budding of new growth.

[misty-mumblings]

Half folded watchman

I see you,

Stood there in the grass.

Your brown cloak

Doesn't move.

But you are swaying,

Like the green reeds

above your head.

And your face a ring,

white cheeked

Then black iris.

You turn and

It is clear there are two

Thin cloaked watchmen.

Fluttering.

Fluttering away

Into the sky.

[misty-mumblings]

The Suit went into spasm, pulses shooting up the neurolink bridging Pilot and Piloted . To Tabi it felt like being stranded in a small red room. Tabi, an ant dwarfed by the velvet curtains bedecking each wall, and It, the Suit looming overhead. It’s gargantuan head peered from where the ceiling should be, single bloodshot eye trained on it’s substitute brain. They could still could see through all three eyes, their own looked up with a wince at the inhuman proportions. The Suit’s biomechanical muscles hanging sinewy like a flesh covered bonsai. The suit saw only the cowering figure inside.

[misty-mumblings]

The unpairing servo cut with medical precision. Tabi had asked for anaesthetic. Their request was denied. Tabi gnashed for the now flapping Suits skin, the rough dermal hardness bracing their skull and focusing the pain. Through the screaming sensation they felt another, outer, odd feeling. Their own teeth against skin that they could feel but that was not their own. The face was always the worst, the meshing neat around the eye sockets to fuse Their vision into the bioelectric displays. A horrid thought bubbled to the surface. How does the scalpel know where Tabi ends and the Suit begins?

[misty-mumblings]

It’s face was like a malformed spear. Three teardrop channels, their depths abyssal holes. The flesh on it’s neck hung wattled, distended in a ghastly corpse blue. All save for a mark by the jugular, a single scarred puncture with three thin grooves. scraps of clothing hung around it’s hunched central mass, heavily embroidered fine silks.

With fresh horror, I gazed at the torn breast pocket, and sure enough the tattered handkerchief’s stitching read “JT”. This was the Dukes son - or what was left of poor young Jonathan. I gasped, the horror overwhelming. It’s dark holes stared into my eyes.