I'll start:
It was a lonely day at the White House for Hillary. Bill Clinton had yet another “appointment” with his intern, and Hillary was getting tired of it. She didn’t know what was up with Lewinsky, but whenever the young intern helped Bill at a diplomatic event, for example, Hillary always thought that there was a little more helping going on behind the scenes. She couldn’t blame him, her husband had a very busy work life, and due to the often confidential nature of these meetings, she wasn’t ever allowed in. Of course, as much as Hillary hated to admit it, Bill knew how bad she was with technology.
He didn’t even trust her with his own email account, saying something about “she’ll probably store it on an insecure server” or whatever. Hillary didn’t care about servers and how secure they were, that’s why she never tipped them. She always thought they were called waiters too, but that thought went out of her mind as a handsome, strapping man (unlike her husband, she thought to herself), walked inside the bedroom Hillary was thinking in.
“Ma’am, just here to pass on a message from Bill. He’ll be staying late in the Oral-- ahem, Oval Office today. He said that he needs to provide ‘dictation’ to his secretary.” the burly black guy said to Hillary. She finally rested her gaze on the big guy, and realized who it was. It was Mandingo, the black man that Bill added as part of his wife's’ entourage, after some political commentators noted that there was not a single person of color on the FLOTUS Secret Service detail.
“Oh, so you’re Mandingo?” asked Hillary. “My husband talked a lot about you, said you weren’t just some guy hired because of affirmative action. And now,” Hillary said, conspicuously looking at his beautifully detailed and toned muscles, “I can finally see why. Those talking heads were right, I really do need a black me on-- er, with me.”
Mandingo was curious. Hillary was looking pretty flustered, and was blushing furiously. “Obviously,” Mandingo thought to himself, “she probably wants to fuck. But there’s only one way to find out for sure.”
“So, Hillary. You really think those talking heads were right about me? Well, since you seem to value them so much, how about we get to talking head ourselves?” Mandingo said, with a domineering attitude that made Hillary want him even more than she already did. But Hillary needed to ‘seal the deal’, so to speak, and unzipping the masculine agent’s pants, said:
“Looks like I’m about to give you some secret service.”
Still incomplete
I turn my head around and see behind
a barrage of uncounted centuries
congesting in their endless file the course
of history, pages of the almanac,
extending to the furthest reaches of
recorded time, where paper frays and frames
the forms of kings, and mounds of plebeian dust
ride the backwards-floating wind of time.
In the primal bush in golden sunshine robed,
perspiring blackened topsoil underneath
to cool the crib, the little feet of lizards
now long returned to loam and dirt would drag
their little bellies through the oozing mud
and scrawl across the land in scurried streaks
a city in relief embossed in dirt,
winding its ways through the swaying tallgrass,
until the primal simian learned that if
he tucked his throbbing thumb against the rock
cupped in his foregathered dactyls, it would
repel the haul of gravity and taste
the glassy higher air unsullied still
by smoke and breath, and fly to where it pleased
him that it fly to hammer muck from meat
and speckle red his ragged face through art of
slaughter. The blood of grassland peasantry
made flush the lining of the arteries
that plotted lines awry about his face,
and on his temple set a bony crown,
and fed the marrows of his kingly bones;
the bulbous mouth, the downy cheeks, the squat
phallus resting in its matted nest, like
the monkey-king upon his fleshly throne.
Of morbid curiosity I chase
with eyes the lives of my progenitor,
and deep within my chest the drum begins
to beat at sight of savagery to match
the savagery forever etched upon
my cardiac wall. What in me is human,
whatever masculine, testosterone
trails afire, descended the lines from him.
But what in me is human had been boiled
and fused together in bubbling womb-water:
the primal male had swum towards the female
and had cocooned himself within her, sharing
blood and spirit to build a progeny, like
the baby hominid that stood just slightly
taller than his hulking parents and shuffled
around the shelter that his mother built him.
Giotto’s Campanile Beckons
With a pounding heart I lie in my bed,
Thinking of any possible way
To end myself in my dark and empty room,
I look through my drawer
And try to discern if the quantity of eliquid in my possession
Is enough to stop my heart,
The bathroom is calling me,
I will lie on the tiled floor and rub
The sweet glycerine nectar all over my nubile torso
And hope for a speedy demise,
I hope that I don’t experience the unpleasantness of vomiting,
For my stomach is filled with the oily pastas of the mensa,
I scrounge the interwebs for the symptoms of nicotine overdose,
The experience sounds rather miserable,
Perhaps there’s another way,
Maybe I’ll stroll on down to the stairwell
At the end of the hall,
And figure out a way to position my body
So that I land on my head
Upon my ultimate plop,
Is it true?
Do you pass out before you reach the ground?
Or will my last experience
Be marked by unfathomable pain?
Oh God!
I hope that I don’t survive!
Three floors plus the basement,
Then the smooth comfort of the cold marble floor,
The ultimate peace,
But is the distance adequate?
Ah, the possibility of survival is too high,
The odds are in my favor,
But stranger things have happened,
I can not withstand the humiliation of survival,
I can not look into the pitiful faces of
Those that once loved me,
After they find out what I wanted to do to them,
Will they be offended or filled with pity
At the thought that I cared so little for them?
Perhaps I’ll suffocate myself,
I place the long-sleve of my newly received
Class of 2019 T-shirt over my mouth and nose,
Then I hold my breath to the gentle tune of
A Sunny Day in Glasgow,
These moaning choruses suit my death well,
The pain increases as my brain pleads for O2,
My heart makes its last attempts to fuel me
And then begins to slow,
On the verge of passing out I realize,
That after I pass out
My body will automatically begin breathing again,
In a passive state where I am not its sovereign,
And I will only awake with mild brain damage,
This effort is futile,
I am a coward,
I don’t have the adequate means to stop
The endless murmurings of my consciousness,
I want to stop completely but the
Margin for error is too wide,
I look out of my small third story window,
Along the horizon I spot the Campanile,
Like a great Gothic antenna
The tower beckons to me with open arms,
Spread wide as the arms of our
Archaic Judean savior,
Perhaps he is my savior after all,
If only there were midnight tourist climbs
To the apex of the famed tower,
What a view that would be,
A perfect panorama
For the closing shot of my miserable narrative,
>>8021398
Part II:
Tomorrow I will avoid my usual actions,
Upon my rising from this cursed bed
I will go straight to Giotto’s Campanile,
I fear that I will not finish the meditative march
Up its winding marble stairs,
The fear will exponentially grow as I ascend,
The faces of those that
I am about to cause distress
Are mentally projected on the stone walls
Surrounding the staircase,
WIll I become a suffering tomato
Upon the final plop?
Not a chance,
This plan is foolproof,
My greatest fear is that when I rise
And enter the breeze of the Florentine morn,
My decision will be postponed once again,
I will no longer be thinking rationally,
I will go on and suffer,
As I did every day before this dreadful night,
I will go through my usual motions,
I will act for those that require my acting,
I will attempt just as hard as I did in my prior days
To care,
To feel affection,
To feel empathy,
To care if any of my fellow flesh-sacks
Cease to exist,
Sometimes I get a glimpse into
Some sort of emotion and I wonder,
Do they all feel this way
All of the time?
Oh, how I envy them!
When I am touched by the smallest
Drop of true affection I revel,
I feel like a real person,
I feel that at least something in
This dreadful place has just
The slightest semblance of significance.
>>8020572
This is a well constructed meme! Many lols
Next time post something genuine, my guy.
>>8021334
I enjoyed this greatly. Some of the word usage can seem a bit muddled in my opinion, but I like where this is going thus far.
I often contemplate the same topics when reading philosophical treatises about man the state of nature. What have we become? How much has our mental conditioning castrated us? This reminds me about Rousseau's noble savage from "On the Origin of Inequality." OH,how much weaker we are from of forefathers!
>>8021334
>>8021437
Here, I added a new stanza to it
I turn my head around and see behind
a barrage of uncounted centuries
congesting in their endless file the course
of history, pages of the almanac,
extending to the furthest reaches of
recorded time, where paper frays and frames
the forms of kings, and mounds of plebeian dust
ride the backwards-floating wind of time.
In the primal bush in golden sunshine robed,
perspiring blackened topsoil underneath
to cool the crib, the little feet of lizards
now long returned to loam and dirt would drag
their little bellies through the oozing mud
and scrawl across the land in scurried streaks
a city in relief embossed in dirt,
winding its ways through the swaying tallgrass,
until the primal simian learned that if
he tucked his throbbing thumb against the rock
cupped in his foregathered dactyls, it would
repel the haul of gravity and taste
the glassy higher air unsullied still
by smoke and breath, and fly to where it pleased
him that it fly to hammer muck from meat
and speckle red his ragged face through art of
slaughter. The blood of grassland peasantry
made flush the lining of the arteries
that plotted lines awry about his face,
and on his temple set a bony crown,
and fed the marrows of his kingly bones;
the bulbous mouth, the downy cheeks, the squat
phallus resting in its matted nest, like
the monkey-king upon his fleshly throne.
Of morbid curiosity I chase
with eyes the lives of my progenitor,
and deep within my chest the drum begins
to beat at sight of savagery to match
the savagery forever etched upon
my cardiac wall. What in me is human,
whatever masculine, testosterone
trails afire, descended the lines from him.
But what in me is human had been boiled
and fused together in bubbling womb-water:
the primal male had swum towards the female
and had cocooned himself within her, sharing
blood and spirit to build a progeny, like
the baby hominid that stood just slightly
taller than his hulking parents and shuffled
around the shelter that his mother built him.
His mother reined the fingers fixing slats
in slits of some austere machinery,
and father let him hold the gutted bow
while being carried on his arching hump.
But both father and mother directed
the drawing of the catgut, taught the love
of creaking wood as the curved spine is drawn
taut, and an arrow loosed at a mammoth’s heart.
1/2
It was a cold July evening, and Montag walked slowly through the sidewalk. The sky was orange, almost night. Near where he walked, there were a small group of people sitting around a metal canister full of fuel, and lit. One of them, excitingly were telling a story, to which the others attentively listened. Near them was a stray dog, sleeping. Scenes like this were common, small families enjoying the evening to warm themselves and have fun. They weren't real families, of blood, but small groups of people living together, separated from other people. Montag also were part of a family, but a big one, living together in a fixed place. Some could say that the way they lived was "communist", but that is debatable. They all liveed together, each in charge of a specific job to benefit the whole family. Montag was in charge of hunting, to get food for the family. Even though he weren't the only, he went alone that day.
Although most of the population lived in that way, that is, without a leader or group of leaders, fact that characterizes anarchism, some still lived in groups with leaders, but they were small, not remarkable, groups, practically unnoticed by most people.
The anarchism was installed in this country (and when I say country, I refer to the geographic localization, a chunk of land divided by natural or artificial borders) after an insurgency. Previously, the state imposed a dictatorship, which lasted several years. A rebel group, with many divisions throughout the country, organized an attack to the main points of power of the state, overthrowing the dictator and other big figures. Afterwards, they utilized a very smart method to completely eliminate leaders. Utilizing strong propaganda, through news, radio, and television, they stimulated the population, who for years nurtured strong hatred towards leaders, to attack every figure that represented power near them. The propagand was just the initial impulse, basically some kind of "permission" given by the insurgents, since everyone had at least a single reason to hate their leaders and executioners. Some, because they lost dear friends and family to the state assassins, others, for being separated, and some simply because of the lack of freedom of expression and action. Soon, what followed was grotesque carnage and savagery . The leaders, who used to hang rebels in public square, were scourged and humiliated by the people. Some, crueler, after days of torture, burned them publicly, to the joy of the people. All these acts, so absurd and inhumane, even today aren't briefly mentioned by those who participated. They fear themselves for what they did.
2/2
Although the coup d'etat was well planned and executed, before and after there was great confusion. Firstly, what would be done after the elimination of the state? Never had them witnessed such fact. The masses believed that, following the example of other overthrown dictators, the republic would be installed and they'd live like other countries. But the insurgents wouldn't allow such fact. They didn't elect a new presidents, but installed anarchy. The main reasons for anarchy to be chosen are still confusing even today. If you ask some, they'd say that anarchy was chosen because it is the natural state of men. Respectfully, I deny this affirmation and teach them what I think to be true.
The main reasons were, the ignorance and excitation of everyone towards the debunked state. After so many years imprisoned, living like birds in cages, controlled by the totalitarian state, the growing chorela towards the powerful minority led to a blind and ignorant hate. When you hate all kind of power, the inexistence of a form of power seems to be the perfect thought. Soon, blind by the thought of living free, they installed anarchy, and abhorred those who wished for order in society. Nevertheless, as the Grand Inquisitor said, "Nothing has ever been more insupportable for a man and a human society than freedom".
I have this idea in my head of a historical novel set in Scandinavia and Greece in the 9th century. Basically, the main character is a Swede that goes on a journey to Constantinople and gets involved in the events that lead to the rise of Basil I as the Emperor of Byzantium. Also if you guys are interested in checking out my writing my blog is,
https://thenightshiftguy.wordpress.com/
>>8022114
This was honestly wonderful. Have you got anymore? Please keep posting, I'm yearning for another dose.
>>8021596
Electric. You have some real talent, young man.
>>8021596
>frays and frames
>the forms
I'm never quite sure about how I fell about this much alliteration
>>8022444
Same guy,
I just think that the heavy use of alliteration can be contrived. It makes poetry seem too constructed. I feel that it should have a more natural flow to it.
>>8022296
I hope you're not baiting, because that really made me glad.
That's the only part I wrote of that story. It was six months ago, I wrote it, but didn't continue. I might someday
original in tacospeak, sorry about the google translate.
>>8023034
I haven't made up my mind whether I like / dislike the alliteration. I don't think that I will. While it does occasionally detract from a natural flow, I enjoy it at times.
