mycophagemuse-blog - Tumblr blog

[mycophagemuse-blog]

The Poeming, The Grave, Day 16 “New Vampire”

Hunger pulled her,

Craving blood.

Would she kill for real this time?

Fear burst out of her guts.

The night says:

I’m sorry I made you suffer

Alone.

She was just happy it

Talked to her.

[mycophagemuse-blog]

The Poeming, The Grave, Day 15

A corpse began to wail,

With wild expression:

Grief and horror.

“You should have listened to your heart.”

But now

That’s spread across asphalt.

For how long? Memory

Made of spectacular clarity,

But color-blind.

Maybe time would breathe fire next,

Leave to deathsleep.

There is no excape from what we all become.

[mycophagemuse-blog]

The Poeming, The Grave, Day 14 “Oddness Abounded”

[Author’s Note: Sorry I am late, Tumblr was having some issues yesterday)

I should be dead,

The tree limbs crack,

In orange light,

I was dying.

The season sighs:

Kidnapped, left to die,

Pulled or pushed from home.

So much

Black

and

White.

Like that was just

Stuff that happened,

Marvel how fast it fades.

The season says:

I am gripped by intense hunger,

Claws staggered up from broken pavement,

Silver radiance of deserved death.

The monster says:

“Are you going to hurt me, little girl?”

A season of ghosts respond,

“You won’t feel so good.”

Soft and brittle ego,

Disintegrating with ghastly finality.

Not aliens,

already here.

Bleeding memory.

[mycophagemuse-blog]

The Poeming, the Grave, Day 13

Thick skin is lazy.

Bad times can run away

With happy dreams, but alike

Dodging feelings

Leaves nothing.

Get away from fear,

Turned edgewise;

You don’t like to think

About serious stuff.

I’m talking to myself.

It doesn’t matter when you’re dead,

But can’t hide from sun now,

As though behind clouds.

You are not in hell yet,

Not thousand years

In darkness.

Time. Still time.

Certain things can’t be explained.

Live.

The Grave, Christopher Pike, Chapter 6.

[mycophagemuse-blog]

The Poeming, The Grave, Day 12, ‘Victim Refusal’

[Author’s Note: I have been reading Olivia Gatwood’s ‘Life of the Party’ and one of the things she talks about is how we, as a society are told to measure the tragedy of a victim by their moral purity, as if it is somehow less sad for a sex worker to be murdered than a ‘homemaker.’ I have been thinking a lot about that as I read this deeply problematic text, and thinking about what would happen if someone banked on that, went after a seemingly easy victim, only to realize they’d chosen poorly, grabbed a metaphorical tiger instead? It wouldn’t make them any less monstrous, but maybe there could be a bit of comeuppance, and isn’t that what horror stories are for?] 

Quiet worsened the ringing,

Awaken to hellish goodbyes.

A total stranger raised terror,

Oddly sweet.

Guilt, like a finger pushed deep

Into her brain, wanted confession.

Defied.

“Burn me at the stake; Satan will come for my soul with demon forks.”

Wanted:

Horror fill her, a sharp stab;

Now she would bleed.

Ridiculous optimism:

She couldn’t die.

At first, didn’t seem to bother him,

Her blood would turn to cherry snowflakes

And clot her Popsicle brain,

That simple.

But not how the story would end.

Worse convulsions, death still close,

He laughs, hysteria:

“How cruel to find love only to lose it in death.”

She smiles back, arms up,

Death’s graceful touch; after all,

He would now be dead as well.

[mycophagemuse-blog]

The Poeming, The Grave, Day 11

So contorted with grief and anxiety,

Forced into her cranium,

Even time was a disease.

Beauty did not entertain, discontent

Shadowed her,

The effort to keep going intimidated.

The future: maybe it was hell,

Maybe heaven, maybe

A journey toward the darkness

Or maybe light was dynamic;

Mystery dominated.

Her soul felt trapped, but light in truth:

You will die and not too far in the future.

Hope is largely precautionary,

After a terrible trauma.

The darkness murmurs:

Better we call it quits,

Don’t want to get your hopes up.

Sometimes good times aren’t enough.

[mycophagemuse-blog]

The Poeming, The Grave, Day 10

What you can’t see can’t hurt you

So be afraid to imagine

What’s coming and going,

Shivering in the night air,

Weird, lost, alone.

Moonlight on the water is nice,

A powerful throb, darkness ablaze,

Impress, consume and savored you,

You think

It will steer around the danger.

Unspoken words in alien code,

If you could understand:

Fled screaming after

Made love to death itself.

[mycophagemuse-blog]

The Poeming, The Grave, Day 9

Lie: not to worry about

The night,

Maybe it was just luck.

Apology: “I have a problem with food;

It makes life,”

How it burned her tongue.

You don’t know anything.

It’s buried deep inside us sparked then choked;

A powerful effect.

Society is full of demands and

Elusiveness is not manipulative.

Drinking tragedy,

Like rippling moonlight.

No one to save you if it turns out dangerous.

[mycophagemuse-blog]

The Poeming, The Grave, Day 8

Bubbled dreams, intense, desperate.

Virtually impossible yet harmfully sacred,

Absolute terror rends many fine qualities.

Dance close to the flames, 

Thoughts: flakes of ash, heavy,

Radioactive.

A result, unseen at first,

Like old movies,

Color-blind, rare, 

A different grave

For living bodies,

Halfway decent, briefly.

Now suddenly shocking, guilt

Sends into different dimensions,

One of many colors.

Hated lying, but the whispers...

“Maybe it had just been a dream.”

[mycophagemuse-blog]

The Poeming, Day 7, For Real

[Note: Finally reached chapter 2! Should probably make these longer then...]

Confused about life like any sane person,

Darkness melted into the rest of her face:

“Life was a bitch and then you were supposed to die.”

A hollow ghost, a scary thought,

Exquisitely serious.

Guilt was her shadow; happiness, smoke.

“Do you like tragedies?”/”I don’t seek them out.”

Depressed meant wise.

Spooks behind

Eyes

Curtains.

[mycophagemuse-blog]

The Poeming, The Grave, Day 7

Not all monsters wore costumes.

See much in the dark, incredibly still.

Stars turn to daggers,

Blades claw, smear blood.

Grotesque holes, utter blackness.

A hideous wraith

Lies to people.

[mycophagemuse-blog]

The Poeming, The Grave, Day 5

Slipped away, Cruelty in beauty. Simple lies supernaturally sucked down. Not care; embrace gentle agony: Vampire or angel? Worn out, dreaming, lying. The hell lived in solitude. No color, sharp edges. The moon is a liar, Always changing. Smile, forced a lot, Lips cold, various shades. Protested: Can't feel love. Confessed: I lied. Drew away too soon, horribly. Even edge of the abyss, He did not for a moment believe she would hurt him.

[mycophagemuse-blog]

The Poeming, The Grave, Day 4 "Therapy"

Sad at the edges tonight. "Remember hope. Walk away." Understand the pain, sorrow now going inside. "Share many things, hope a lot of things." Between them, of course, permission. The Grave, Christopher Pike, Chapter 2.

[mycophagemuse-blog]

The Poeming, The Grave, Day 3

Friends live briefly, like it meant something. Desperate, clumsy stray, Meloncholy fascination with A wounded angel. Contradiction Feared more than logic: All life was hopeless, Without human feeling (How impatient the man, rejecting too much). The gods were not kind, Slowly suffocating love. What a wonderful life it was.

[mycophagemuse-blog]

The Poeming, The Grave, Day 2

Buried anything Means superficial interests. Living like everyone else: Not knowing. Nevertheless Half-built tragedy Tossed simmering cliche, Emotions detached immediately. Complain today; stuttered. Forced hungry unexpectedly, Shiver breath promise Withdrew glittering sunbeams on dreamy blue. The Grave, Christopher Pike, Chapter 1

[mycophagemuse-blog]

The Poeming, The Grave, Day 1

Hey, all! I will post a longer intro soon but tumblr won't load on a computer and I wanted to get on this day one. Preview The last morning Knows, Superficial death interests girls: Dark, forgotten memories The Grave, Christopher Pike, Preview Page