harlequin-doll8

 “My dearest Marco,  That is what you go by these days isn’t it? I haven’t spoken to you in a very long time, far too long for my taste. Let’s meet properly again. I’ll be at the tavern in town at night, between 8 and 9. Also, do not spend too much time working, ‘tis not good for your health.        With love,        Isobel Amsel.” Alastair is alarmed by the contents of the first letter. Not only does he not ever recall a certain Isobel Amsel, but he hasn’t been called Marco since his parents passed in a terrible train car accident. He gently lay the letter down upon his bed and reaches to o

“See you later you ‘very unlucky person who did not get the rest of the afternoon off’” The unremarkable Alastair Evans called from the doorway as he all but hung off it like a monkey. “Yeah, yeah, but I’ll still ‘ave to see your ugly mug at the meetin’, seven sharp!” Gregory O’Daniel sat at his simple desk, just like Alastair’s, but cluttered with paper and pens alike. His log book lay open to the most current page. It was December the second. “I’m off then.” Alastair smiled broadly to his friend before locking the door to his small but tidy office and as

“I’ve gotta tell you Jason, Alice is really great and all, but I think you should know what you’re getting into.” My little brother sighed into the phone, deadpan as ever. “Well get on with it Charlie, I really need to get going, my interview is in an hour.” I say urgently as I rush out of the crowded hallway of my apartment building. “The chick running the place, Alice, she’s um…different. Just be patient and I’m sure that everything will work out.” Charlie sounds pensive on the other side, yes; this totally helps me get ready for the most important interview so far in my a

An infantile being wandering among the cosmos as a universe all encompassing to cradle the wear in her starry womb the mother star who in collapsing into her core self creates the most brilliant, unimaginable destruction of everything unavoidable in nature, consuming in spirit annihilating everything in her path but one lonesome, baby star that flourished in its isolation what we call home

Social Suicide Can I drown in the wretched sound of wedding bells and asphyxiate to the lull of The Smiths while lying in my teenage bed cursing at the white white ceiling can I find comfort the wailing cry of a child neglected before shedding a tear for a girl that hung herself because of a poor decision she made in the seventh grade is it so wrong to find luxury in deprivation as a hunger artist as a starving Shakespeare as one of the beautiful people and never think of those who have yet to know any other life before they die in the cradle of malnourishment and malaria of cancer and the influenza of sepsis and brain tumors

I've been fast, like a train that refuses to rest, for fear it will stop And loud, fearing that my words would lose their meaning But never have I been here, In another world, that must be better With you, my little daffodil In the cradle, like an open hand We have no words, and no speed Here we sleep, under a canopy of our friends Don't wake And don't look too hard, at the faults in our stars I want to love slow After I wanted so bad to go Never do I want to wake alone But I've never been here Deep in the hole in my heart, I really want to go And join the faulted stars, the falling stars And learn to fly without wings To

the milk white rosary cradled in the open hand strike up the band, and i'll hold you back we're nothing without each other like the moon, godlike in the sky, the youthful white moon pushing from it the stars god will save her she's clutching it now, the gun he gave her in the other she cradles the knife it's aimed, he's dead god can't save her now sitting, holding, barely together she's broken scraping the blood off the body of christ and jesus wept god won't save her now She knew it even wanted it that's what's so sad what's so good about god anyway? she knew it. mary dropped the rosary and walked alone.

Mourning and grief are funny things, because they make us selfish, and devestatingly reliant on sorrow and wallowing, to the point where we almost forget to see the brilliant light of the moon. So here we are, alive, and god fearing people, completely surrounded by the dead. We rufuse to acknowledge them now that they've passed, almost dismissing them from our lives, and then grieving over them in death, not literal death, and metaphorical one in which all dreams and hopes and loves die. Except our love of misery. Deep down everyone loves misery in some way, it loves company and in turn infects everyone. We do not love misery, but it latches