Slow and ponderous you drift,
Ancient beyond telling, somnolent, heedless
Of titles and designations; thou distant 9th Planet
Whom Lovecraft called
Yuggoth
Aeons ago...
What vistas stretch endlessly before you
Where our Sol Invictus is but a tiny yellow gleam
On the edge of your horizon?
1) 'T is bitter cold, and I am sick at heart.
2) I have been as deaf, and blind, and wooden as a log.
3) I am a woodman of the woods, and hear the garnet-headed yaffingale mock them--
4) For the love of God, Montresor!
5) It is a foul bauble of man's vanity. Away with it!
6) What scourge of perjury can this dark monarchy afford! False Clarence!
7) I see men as trees, walking.
8) Iä-R'lyeh! Cthulhu fhtagn! Iä! Iä! No, I shall not shoot myself--
9) Clarence is come! False, fleeting, perjured Clarence, that stabbed me in the field by Tewkesbury! Seize on him, Furies! Take him to your torments!
10) The rule is, jam to-morr
How to Write a Bestseller by Emerald-Alexandria, literature
Literature
How to Write a Bestseller
You know that zone that writers flock to,
The complete nirvana of the soul,
ecstasy of the mind,
and silence of the world
that must be achieved for the words to kiss the paper?
The negotiations with the thermostat,
the perfect explosion of feng shui
assaulting the imprints of furniture in the carpet
as the tables and chairs are dragged across the room;
Perhaps you can only write cross-legged or upside down
until the creative juices drown your brain
and you are swimming in inspiration;
or maybe you need the window open to let the sun in,
or shut to keep it from escaping;
You might require your loved one's kiss,
an onslaught of passion glued to
Last Will And Testament by Emerald-Alexandria, literature
Literature
Last Will And Testament
The deceased leaves for her mother:
19 years,
lost and wandering,
with hopes that they may guide the recipient
to a better understanding
and a brisk new tomorrow
For the Ebony Queen
who crunches celery at 3am by the old route's bus stop
with whom she shared a passing glance,
the dearly departed gives two eyes
of sun-baked mud
and silvered glass,
intended for the use of dissolving/dissecting hills and waves,
yet provided for a purpose that is up for debate
It is in the best interest of the victim,
that her words
(including, but not limited to,
her glowing screams, bad analogies, wayside prayers,
dusty dreams, golden giggles, moonlit pas
If Shakespeare Had a Facebook Page by Emerald-Alexandria, literature
Literature
If Shakespeare Had a Facebook Page
If Shakespeare had a Facebook page
Would he “Like for Jesus” or “Ignore for Hell”?
How many likes would his sonnets catch,
And would “Macbeth” be received well?
Would the rose smell just as sweet
if no one read it in a tweet?
And would he come up with the truth after a year,
that “Hell is empty and the devils are here”?
Would he whore for likes and friend requests?
Share his results for every personality test?
And post a “Teen Quote” for every day?
Would he be caught up with his anime?
Do you think he'd enjoy RoosterTeeth's channel,
Post selfies in snapbacks and Nike’s and fl
A mechanical man,
Rusted, stuck, and sulking on his gears and joints
Knees bent solid, and feet planted in the dry concrete
Forever frozen with birdseed in his hands
White feathers and waste adorn his hair
And the only sign of life is his watering eyes
As slow as paint dries
Unblinking in the face of Ra
There's no oil can on the other side of the rainstorm of rays
He tries to twiddle his thumbs
Recalling how they once whirred and cranked
A nonchalant humming against the squawking of his feathered friends
The past is all he has anymore.
Nothing but metal gone hot in the sun
Festering flesh broiling in a tin can
Children roasting marsh
On Broadway Road by Emerald-Alexandria, literature
Literature
On Broadway Road
There's a naked woman on Broadway Road
Standing, hunched, over the curb
Lightheaded on the stench of gasoline
Baring it all from head to toe
In the spotlight of the city, amidst waves of noise
Her hands struggle to hide the pouch of left-over baby fat
Still clinging to her waist by the umbilical cord
The people gawk and stare her way
Their eyes crawl up and down her skin
and hug the hips, somewhere between curvy and big-boned,
spotting the blemishes, dimples of cellulite;
But no seems to see the tattoos of blood and ink
Stamped across her back like scars
Barely legible through the fog:
“Lost Child; Return to Owner”
Her eyes are
Red Riding Hood's Cabaret by Emerald-Alexandria, literature
Literature
Red Riding Hood's Cabaret
A dancing girl with fiery hair,
Twirling smoke around her finger
Dances in darkness for a sea of howling wolves
Unclothed, her emptiness is put on stage
To burn in the spotlight
As claws scratch at the floor
She plucks a hot cigarette from one of the fingers
Puts it to her lips and takes a warm sultry drag
"Look, but don't touch" she mutters,
Stepping just close enough for a claw to rip into her thigh
And she whispers into the snarling crowd
"What more do you want?"
as her hips and crimson lips rock smoothly and tempt softly
And while her legs move, her eyes dance and smile,
Unsolvable mazes of golden brown for irises.
A subtle wink giv
Ramblings of the Yellow-Lipped Mad Man by Emerald-Alexandria, literature
Literature
Ramblings of the Yellow-Lipped Mad Man
The mad man of no man's land
Sleeps in a shack
Of broken black stained glass
Smoking old bullets and kissing cigars
With a yellow-lipped smile,
Reeking of piss and ink
Brainwashed by gunpowder,
He twitches at the squawks of vultures
Snapping his fingers to the Devil's knocks on his pebble door.
Sometimes, he's a king
Sitting regally upon his throne
Of rusted fingernails and shattered teeth,
A crown of thorns ripping into his brow,
And sipping on the finest festered bone marrow--
It's getting harder to find in this drought.
But then he melts into a blithering Goliath,
Rolling on a rug of dusty Persian hair
With a mistress made of butcher'