She's casting whispers

on waves again,

Lets the sound starve for air

and spread between the tides.

And I'm counting bubbles

within the mist.

And her echoes

wash up and

shape the shoreline

until I find myself.

Walking this tightrope

that only I'm aware of.

She's looking at a dreamboad.

I'm dodging steps

so I don't trample something

I never knew existed.

And the waves are nonsense

but feel truth.

So I'm tapdancing in moonlit blindspots

because I don't want to

stomp on dreams.

I will let the ocean

pool in my palm before

I carry it careful to a flame.

Boil it out and trace the clouds.

Just...looking for clues

I probably let pass by.

And I will miss something.

So I'll show scars and wrinkles

as proof I tried.

Hoping the textured leather

around my heart

tells a story she hasn't

Heard yet.

A lot of maybes

Die within hope.

Guess I'm praying

for chances now.

In darkest night a single shot rang out,

a body lay upon the preacher's stage;

the pages of a Bible strewn about

were evidence of some unholy rage.

My job it was, to solve these heinous crimes—

the holy dead man here was not the first.

Though I possessed a sharp deductive mind,

it had become my blessing, and my curse.

These men were foolishly all targeted

by some poor fool, in superstitious zeal,

who used a silver bullet to strike dead

the werewolves they must have believed were real.

The true sadness was one they'd never know,

as in the moonlight, I felt my fangs grow.

----------------------

© 2023 dustygrein

I pulled up to Rampart with my uncle’s mob buddies, their fat fingers and thin ties laughing behind the wheel. “You think this little gnat is funny to the boss? They ain’t, and we all know this will not end well.” I twist the ring on my Saturn finger and ask, “Whose bones are in the basement?“ Tommy gives me a sly wink as he shuts the trunk to the Lincoln. ”Real people are dying everyday, every damn day, but you keep letting that tongue wag.” I look at him and shrug. ”Don’t throw them in the lake just yet.”

Tommy takes a long glance at a strange liquid that begins to soak through the floorboard. “They have a losing hand, they just don’t know it yet.“ I grab the cuff of his jacket and wipe away a tiny piece of brain fragment. “Let’s go, It’s starting to stink.“

i have a resume in evolution. i can give you a list of all the words and terms i've used to introduce myself. i stopped collecting my references a while ago because my relationships became interviews, especially my relationship with myself.

"how do you qualify for this position?"

every day. over and over again. measuring my insides like a ritual.

i'm proud to have the capacity to love anyone. to be able to see each human as they are without any prerequisites is my most beautiful quality.

my resume has become outdated, it couldn't fit all the love i feel.

Loneliness had disfigured him. That was what he concluded, when he failed to recognise the skeletal face as his own. They had warned him that the night shift was deeply unhealthy, that the strange hours would meddle with his circadian rhythm. But that didn’t quite explain it. He wasn’t tired. If anything, he felt too alert. It was the world that had become catatonic.

When he first began, he could not recognise this. For months, he tried his best to rouse some life back into the world. But it would not be woken. At this time of night, people would not meet his eye, much less be coaxed into small talk. Now, the old world felt far away, a memory of a memory, and he no longer recalled how to return.

This deep into the evening, the ferry was empty except for the dregs of the night that had at last been turned out from the bars. The air hung heavy with cold and all was silent, aside from the creak of corrugated metal as the craft drifted toward the jetty.

There was no one there to moor the boat, and he had long ago given up. So, taking his motionlessness as cue, the passengers got up, crossed the threshold, and staggered off into the night.

Now came the wait. For forty-five minutes, he was compelled to sit until it was time for the next crossing. Rarely would even a single passenger alight. The wait made him uneasy. He feared that one day, the night would finally take the opportunity to swallow him completely. But, it was his job to ferry anyone needing to cross, and so he would wait in the dark.

It was as the engine began sputtering back to life, that a lone figure came over the hill. The ferryman watched the man pick his way down, the long grass rustling with each step.

“Are you still taking people across?”

“I am.”

Coins clinked as they exchanged hands, the propeller began to stir, and before a full minute had passed, the craft had pushed off from shore.

Despite the gentle rocking of the water, the ferryman kept his eyes fixed ahead. The river had a nasty habit of guiding the boat into the shallows and the jagged stones protruding from its bed.

“Do you like your work?” The question took a moment to register; he wasn’t accustomed to the passengers speaking.

“Sure.”

“Must be nice. Freeing. Out here in the night, just you and your boat,” the words came out in a sigh.

The ferryman glanced at the man: thinning hair, crumpled white shirt, a grave look on his pallid face. “Its got its perks... but sometimes a little too much freedom,” he added.

“Too much?”

“Nothing to keep me anchored.”

“Oh. That’s disappointing,” the man said with a pained sincerity. “I would have thought…”

“As did I. But now? Well, the nights drift by.” The remark hung heavy for a while and neither man made an effort to resurrect it.

“Y’know,” a squeak from the bench revealed the man had stood up, “I shouldn’t even be out this late. I’ve got work tomorrow, things to do. HR’s told me, if they don’t see an improvement, they’re going to let me go.”

“So, why are you?”

“I don’t know,” the man rubbed his eyes. “It makes me feel alive, I guess. I need something that feels different. Everything beyond this, it just doesn’t feel real anymore.”

At this, the ferryman looked away, and from the corner of his eye, watched his passenger approach the railing. He stood there gazing at the water, slackened neck-tie flailing in the wind, its tongue flapping against the sullen red marks that encircled his neck.

“It's this or go to sleep I guess,” the man confessed. Never married, I don’t have kids, it’s just me and the flat.”

The ferryman felt a pang of pity. “We all have to sleep eventually,” he offered.

The man looked back at him hard, the greys of his eyes shimmering in the scant moonlight. “And you?”

“What about me?”

“Family, kids, anyone waiting for you?”

The ferryman shook his head, ignoring the vague lapping feeling within, “None of that matters past a certain point.”

The already faint light of the shore had, by now, long ago receded into the distance. Without it, the chill became apparent. His passenger broke out into bouts of shivering. From deep within, the ferryman felt the lapping rise to a dull ache, yet he said nothing. There wasn’t much point at this rate.

Having shuttled thousands across, the ferryman knew where they were from instinct.

“We’re here.” A moment later, a small bump brought the boat to a standstill.

The darkness was so thick, neither man could make out the land that lay before them. Together, they waited, alone except for the ever stretching silence. The passenger’s teeth were no longer chattering.

He turned to the ferryman, “I don’t want to get off.”

The ferryman did not meet his eye. “I know,” he said, “but, this is the end of the line.”

Gripping the edge of the mattress, it is the Void that is calling. If you've ever fainted, then you know as I do what it means, to be so near Death. The slow withdrawal from this world is felt as a muffling of hearing, like being pulled inside a trunk, with the simultaneous dimming of vision, like in rapid Nightfall... a nulling of the senses, a vacuum in the chest. The panic and ecstasy that grips the flailing body and soul is the eternal suction of the Void drawing account of those enumerable things cheated from you... my Life. The steps I didn't take, the motions I negated, the dances I didn't dance, the romances and flights of fancy I denied, the calls I never made, the voice I could have raised while there was still semblance of chance, those tender precious words I failed to say or to write... Lying now just out of reach... the sum of Naught.

The Void reckons it all, like Debts. And in the final Act of the Drama the soliloquist is cut in the dead of the auditorium and drawn back behind the curtain like in a Dream, only partly revealed... to us.

While the din in the audience is raised, with clanking of coats, seats, and keys, hushed whispers tossed out into the darkness, looking for truths... "...What did it mean...?"

Everything. And Nothing.

06.03. 2023

Challenge XL @Prose

you only eat Burger King

at 12:03am on Tuesday nights

under flickering, broken street lights

in the parking lot

where you're crying

about something

you could have easily

changed the outcome of

the night is suffocating

that summer stillness

crickets clicking, mimicking your heaving

greasy breezes gently caressing your vehicle

like parasitic demons

it's a hellish dream you can't wake up from

realized only in the subconscious

in this metal contraption you are inside of

at midnight you turn to stone

the burger you ate

flipped until golden brown

is now a memory to be forgotten about

except in your stomach

where acid will break it down

at least you hope it will

for you, are not a king at all

just a jester failing to do its job

Instead of cucumbers

I place pickles over my eyes

because I prefer to think that self-induced agony

makes me stronger and more resilient.

I am a glutton for punishment,

so, I lay back and let the brine work its way in.

Never wincing—Never offering a single reaction to its burn,

but my retinas are on fire.

The cohesion of pickle juice and natural saline

works its way toward my brain

like a starving parasite eating its last meal.

I welcome this torture

because I find comfort in pain

and already know the sting will fade away in time,

or, I’ll just become too numb to feel it.

After all, pain is more familiar than love,

which for me is like love,

because it’s always there for me even when I never need it.

I deeply appreciate its loyalty and commitment,

and though it’s not reciprocated, it’s unconditional.

I light a candle to unwind.

A flickering flame soothes my unrest.

Lavender releases from the wax prison it was held in,

but still, I prefer the Sulphur of a match

over a deceased flower’s final excrement

because the aroma of hell is how I relax.

Dead Flowers and hell. They’re both the same anyways, right?

Everything revolves around death and ends in death.

Even while the oil bleeds out of an unsuspecting aromatic herb,

its beautiful aroma is squeezed from its last breath.

So, everything is resolved in death.

There is only one place for us in the end. For me, it’s hell.

So, I decided to get there sooner by living in one.

I wonder if they can make a candle that smells like hell.

Do you think they can extract the essence of a decaying body

and place it in a wax jar like they did that Lavandula?

I flip on a tune,

to set the mood with my favorite soundscape—

A waterfall crashing into a rainforest.

Now that’s a sound I can drown myself in.

It spills down from three thousand feet above

and smothers me like I'm being waterboarded by nature.

How interesting that water gives life, yet can so easily take it away.

Angel Falls is not my guardian protector,

but it is a fallen angel I must protect and guard

because she lifts me up closer to heaven than I’ve ever been,

then drops me back down to earth where I guess I belong. For now.

I place a warm rag over my face to simulate the Amazonian climate,

Then turn on the faucet to full blast

so, I can practice how to breathe.

No gills mean there is a struggle,

but a struggle is what I crave.

With every gulp of oxygen I lose, my existence fades,

and I start to appreciate all the small things a little more.

Who knew being closer to death,

helps you love life a little better?

Why can’t I just get there on my own instead of forcing it?

Am I fucked up for living this way,

or is living this way how I fuck?

The timer blares a turbulent cry,

and my deprivation is complete.

While the tank opens to birth me back into reality,

I can’t help but wonder,

If I am reflecting on thoughts of death because I want it,

or if it’s how I cope with knowing the fate of humanity.

The salty bath I floated in slides off me like water repels oil,

like cheaters repel love.

and like humans repel humans.

I rinse off my secret thoughts in the shower,

dry off self-hatred with a towel,

then put on a costume of lies so I may enter the world,

and on the way out I schedule another visit

to my torture spa.

I can’t wait to live again,

next month.

after Rudy Francisco

I deflect

and ask how they are

watch through their windows

to catch a mirror—find

a glint of a slip

do you also breathe different behind closed doors?

break bank to buy normal?

skin your skin because you know yourself?

Are we the same?

I find

they are asking about themselves

my non-answer for their own

a lazy hope

for tether

do you also let your wrists be pulled?

find your tears circling the drain?

watch me watch you and break cover?

Are we the same?

I lie

don’t disclose my bpm—higher

when I pretend, when my days reorder

themselves to bury truth and my nights—

exhume

do you also concede to the holiness of words?

need space to fall in love?

not sleep to memorize?

Are we the same?