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postapocalypse


Brigid’s Way
 
 
With passion!
Outpouring care feeds our mythic spring.
Sparkling flame of peace abides within,
melts forbidding.
Not fools,
no pleas for altruist beliefs.
Relief of hunger feeds us.
No cunning deceivers could with malice
steal our good.
Need reaches to heal through magical
interchange.
Energies not replenished, giving
stops.
Why meanly measure out
moral scores in play at “who deserves”?
Making use of flowing contribution
is no drain, but the focal point for
cyclic rain’s reward.
Fortune’s gift revealed, this well neverending,
fed by the blessing
of sacred vessels aching to be filled.
Dip in with grace, good will, wisdom
self-rejoicing.
This is not belief or even knowing.
This is breath of awe in motion.




the crepuscular world knows, does not say
All language is metaphor
Intermingled, light and diminishing glow



Uncharacteristically voluble, I speak my deep, dark memories, for what else can I do with them, or you?
Specter, conflated of my need for solitude, and my greater need to be seen, to have an existence of matter,
of substance, of sense and circumstance that make meaning.
 
 

 
 
Calling Card
 
 
I am metamorphing art
a brain in a biological bottle.
What does that even mean?
I am but a latter day fool,
a futile Lancelot sans his Art or Guin.
If you let me in, if I satisfy some gaping
pinhole in your aimless curiosity,
if my foraging philosophy intrigues
your rambling wit, if we sit to laugh and cry
over wine and brie, you will see.
 
 
 
 
alien eyes stare
into my alien eyes
between our planets
 
 
 
 
 
 
God is a concept. Power is belief.
 
 
Born with the implied function to continue the tradition of who we are.
The desire for applause from those we adore.
Containers of dangerous unknown unknowns.
It’s not morality. It’s not romantic love.
We aren’t equipped to viscerally commit to
the intangible, unentangled.
We act within the bounds of what can be allowed
by our desires.
We act within confines
of who we’ve allowed ourselves to be.
Shell-shocked by normality.
Remnants and bits carelessly sewn together.
Feel the pull before the push catches from behind.
 
Accept
need as given.
Wander on, through connection generating heat, pleasure,
bliss, mystic surrender
 
Tales of death and resurrection make it seem so easy.
Yes, I’m terrified; but twill be better in the end, and then
again when I revive.
But just because the legends say better days will come
our way doesn’t make it so.
Seers can purvey bitter memories. Fear can
eviscerate for aeons.
Long before healing can get underway, strength diminishes,
resolve deflates, the time runs out to reignite.
 
 
 
Gargoyle on the piano
Ghouls a’hop
Dervishes a’flame on wolfbane
so damned hot
wailing and screaming
this band has style
writhing into creaming
wet and wild
Hell’s on fire
We all expire
tonight.
 
 
 
If you want it to be real, you need to feel
the wrenching of intestines,
the bleating of raw blood,
the smell of storm, its warning.
Pretty little pictures held to hide disgrace
too easily succumb when hunger calls.
You had it all, the wrong and right,
your chance at teacher’s pet,
a cave to crawl inside and close the door.
Where are the stories you fed upon, Vampiric
immortality and its cost?
Living on glory just ahead,
around that bend, once you’re done being
lost.
Do you want it to be real?
Do you see in these dreary days
a solid grasping, a taste of ash,
a will to reignite?
Is that the clarity of reality,
this banality of nothing feeling right?
 
 
 
 
 
Hunger too redundant for horror.
Each night to feed wrapped in repugnancy.
Hidden, alone, hunting streets of death.
No hope, nothing legitimate.
Days escaped in self-made darkness
without dreams, blocking memories,
enduring.
 
Creature of these streets, cold, abandoned,
preternaturally cruel, air of sulphur, tar,
pain of rot sans remorse or resolution,
unnatural world without end or warmth.
Even when blood runs hot into aching jaws,
pallid, empty,
no warmth penetrates.
Nights go nowhere.
More filth, horror
too familiar to offend
solitary hunters crowding all the secret places.
 
There is no exit here
No sweet release of sleep, no prayer to soft salvation.
There is only dead degradation of soul.
Not possibility, no properties of love or fond relation.
Trial of existence with no useful expression, no expiration.
Yet in this ceaseless horror, in this carnal Hell,
in this my filthy home, cold, without mercy,
in this cage of unrelenting dark,
a spark, a circle of red and black calls to enter.
Here, where awareness centers, threads of rotten vein
play at art, at shocking beauty.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
So easy to condemn young minds violently denied
-- but, what to do with the waste?
 
 
Energy that dissipates as irritation
not useful for work or for love.
Crippling self-observation – naught to be done.
It takes big flavours, loud collisions,
so jaded,
it takes a lot to get through the scars.
 
Isn’t that why we have cults, to give us purpose
to engage our minds away from pointless pain,
to focus on training for the mission?
 
People enjoin through
a dark, hopeful song deeply focused,
a bond of mutual need, a promise to care
desire for applause from those we adore
their searching smile, inviting eyes
who could afford to not pay all?
 
 
 
 
 
Theories more like hypotheses
Thought game possibilities
Based more on ego arrogance than
objective observation
 
Heartbreaking blue
above still vibrant drying leaves,
guardians of my horizon.
 
 
Lush silk
Purrful presence
Solid, agile friend
 
 
 
Success = Having a goal, and reaching it.
It can be any old goal you like.
Success is of limited value,
limited by the value you attach
to your goal.
 
 
 
Doing what is right because it is of benefit to you
to have a better world to live in,
which obviates the costs a worse world would cause.
 
 
 
crepuscule, quintessential evil
unable to shake that will to exist
no matter the pain, the cost, the shame
the need for blood casts out luxury of bonding
who could love such monstrous necessity?
 
 
 
 
Remnants and bits
carelessly sewn together
Feel the pull before
the push catches from behind
 
 
Battle fish battle
tell tales with their fins
regale the status of their kin
with whom they share DNA
so stay away
 
 
 
Frozen not in time, but emotion
Fear of love, thrall of vengeance
shame of this child in the mirror
so lost and defiantly alone.
 
 
Run through streetlit puddles
anonymous legs, trousers, stockings, galoshes, heels.
Stuck in frantic motion.
Shadowlike, insubstantial
Running dampness smudges ink into ideograms.
 
 
This body is not me; only what I have to travel
to hunt the dark, hide from the day.
I am hunger unrelenting, eternal.
Pallid, weak, alone.
What story can I tell myself to comfort, imitate warmth?
Putrid alleys, dark cellars
musty air of mystery, regret, revenge.
No morals here, no heat nor passion.
Cold, empty of anything but time,
to kill.
 
 
Spirit bound and masked
unacquainted with freedom
Centaur, in name only – more mage than mare.
More child in the corner silently singing
to hold tears, tongue, repent, recoil.
Singing of laughing eyes a’float in kindness --
happy fantasy to pretend to remember.
 
 
Grooving through the twilight
Twirling through the fade
Relax into madness,
dark magic
masquerade
 
 
 
Where does it start?
A life, a mind, a set of states of being?
Innocence is not knowing, not having
the background precepts that build awareness
of why she yells and makes that ugly face,
of why he shakes and strikes and blubbers
contorted eyes, cheeks, mouth
loud to invoke terror.
 
 
Shell-shocked from this war of all against all.
 
Live where you belong: right here; right now,
 
Here’s to the weary
Here’s to the fun
Here’s to the berry that makes us all young
Here’s to the rulers
Here’s to the fools
Here’s to the toilers and tellers of truths.
Here’s to the end of another decline
Here’s to the best of our time.
 
Tribute to the Muses
that I may be allowed
their resplendent presence
 
 
Iconic target for hatred
stealthy predator
addict to the kill
danger so unthinkable
we call it myth, fairytale
 
 
 
 
I pretend to familiarity with your vocabulary
I pretend we are all linguistically aligned
agreed upon signs and symbols of some common tribe
I pretend my mind doesn’t trick to treat me like a docile child,
that laws of wild origin proceed
I pretend that pretense is what I need
to keep me sane, free to explore, to exploit my explorations
into song, into hyperbole
I pretend that nobody can see
rather than reveal the truth of their disinterest.
 
 
Any self-organizing system is limited by the confines of environment
within which it must find sustenance to survive
I am no good at these little anecdotes, pithy trunks filled with
collected gems, street stoop wisdom, chit and chat on
an evening breeze
It’s not like when the lines come prearranged in visual fantasy
or crazy waves obscuring sound so we hear only by reflection
After vision clears and the dream becomes tomorrow
with nothing left to confess
I am opening to new suggestions
Language requires cooperation
 
 
 
Government is a creature of society. It is the responsibility of society to control it.
 
 
true beauty trumps
 
 
Exhilaration of destruction
high on the kill, sacrifice to death,
orgy of war against all who are not me



Cracked glass from which all energy has seeped
Empty, fragile, without purpose.


These criminals have no honor.
People who are honored have much of value to lose.
Vampires have no honor, no moral code of allegiance.
We have the code of the predator: kill and live.


Iridescent puddles under rusted streetlamps
Water of life
left to rot
to fester in garish neglect.
I ache to no longer feel; and the cold mist becomes my breath.
I am inured for now.


I want to tell because it screams through me.
Not a sketch or a story, a whirlwind, a storm too vast and quick to name.


We each have our fascinations, our attractions, our kinks
made of complex influences, early experiences interpreted by
self-forming formulations, nascent neural interchange,
a striving to order chaos, to find place and attachment.


The worse things get, the less value accrues to sanity. A good enough delusion
will get you through most anything.
Why muck about in those nasty, bummer delusions, kids?
Be happy in your total break with reality.
All power to the beautiful imagination!
No power to angry drudging or agony of pitiful rendition of every incident of shame,
renamed from innocent to vile.
A child is not merely a metaphor – fairytales and adoration.
A child feels in the here and now
scrapes, bloody breaks, undying fear ignited by vague nightmares,
words not heard,
who will love me now will be my friend and protector?
Not words,
uncomfortable silence where normality should be.
What have I done? Who can I blame? How can I hide?
Where am I allowed to pretend I’m alive?


Hiding from daylight, spinning out dreams that I would dream
if I slept
self-made arcade of escape


Dried blood, accumulations of soot and decay
smell so omnipresent I am not aware; but too detectable, telling of my presence
staving off prey, inviting petty violence
I take precaution, bathing in scant water mixed with select herbs to blend into night,
another ancient tree clothed in lichens, mold, saturating dust and ash, aged, pervasive,
nothing offensive or of note.




 
 
 
 
welcome to another year,
spiral voyage around this plane
yet one more touchstone day
to feel the depth of time
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Last edited by libramoon, Feb/1/2013, 3:43 am
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patchwork narrative - Hunger


Hunger.
 
 
Not like this, raw compulsion,
this pit of growling lust.
Feral, the smell, copper and iron,
medicinal charge to heal the wounds
of eternal damnation.
Red stains. No rule or discipline can cage
unending need for living blood.
 
So gleefully he warmed, promised flowing,
an existential thrill well beyond what paltry
passion could indulge.
Far too late to protest or argue,
here where existence is throes of sick
insistence. Far beyond reach of a
coherent self to control or resist.
Hunger
unformed
unadorned
Instinct.
A passion play, my Lords and Ladies
vicariously feast, aglow in rapture of greed,
the raucous laughter of power.
A salacious toy for hideous sport.
 
What matters, all that is real, is night
blood and sacrifice to gods of cruel command.
Unbound by penance or shame.
Hot energy flows.
My only ability is to feed.
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patchwork narrative - Mirror


Mirror


I go to her window.

I have seen her on the street,
much later than is proper for a child.
She is lonely.
She plays at imaginary friends
with prowling cats who enjoy a momentary acquaintance,
with solemn structures
of stone and brick sporting colorful postings that promise excitement.
Often she hums bright little tunes;
her body gracefully accentuates.
She is beauty of a fading kind.
Soon she will understand
the world she yearns to find beyond these squalid barriers
cannot be found.
I want to save her that.

I want such a beautiful companion.
She is lonely.
I have become loneliness itself.
This is a different kind of yearning need.

It’s not sex.
I have no such desire.
That possibility was cut out of me so long ago,
never to be known.

It is a need to give, to be part of, to have a reason to respond,
a reason to feel other than bad.
So how can I take her?
How can I offer my suffering, my damnation
as a gift of friendship?

She will grow into a common whore, bitter and sweet,
creature of the street and the night.

Perhaps we’ll find each other there in time,
for the briefest time,
a moment.
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Re: postapocalypse


I'm following, Libra. Thinking there is more?

Tere
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Re: postapocalypse


no more yet, but it will be coming as it does
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patchwork narrative - Disposal


Disposal


I know the world of whores, tired and dreary, though far from my dreadful habitation.
Prowling men, hunters of prey for a different hunger, a fantasy of the loins
that consumes some like a kind of desperation, or so they seem.
They mistake me for prey.
Something in my stature, façade of innocence, aloneness, attracts.
There are warm, dark, furtive rooms in the offing, cash, an easy mark in privacy.
We are safely locked inside his hideaway.
So simple to jump and take hold, my legs around his waist, my arms holding him close,
to give a little love bite of anticipation. Small, sharp, needlelike, I penetrate.
He falls into a swoon, into unknowing sleep.
Perhaps we are both satisfied, for now.
But before sunrise I must attend to disposal.
Burning would evidence too much stench, as would leaving the remains to rot.
He has a strong, sharp knife for defense on a leg-sheathe.
Obviously, he had believed no need to be readily armed against me, fooled by
my slight form, unaware of supernatural strength.
That strength, his knife, operating in his bathroom tub to contain bloodless gore.
I wrap the hunks in random paper, rags torn from his clothing.
Before I can rest, relax in this subterfuge won temporary sanctuary, I dispose of the trash.
I find an appropriate travel bag among his belongings.
I find his key and cash.
Fed and flush, I go out to the emptiness of darkest before dawn to distribute free meals.
I scatter fresh flesh bounty in places I have found favored by nature’s scavengers while
hidden to the human eye.
Back to claim my prize, inside before sunlight, I feel a kind of freedom. The kind that
haunted creatures feel alone with our ghosts.
I don’t sleep; but I curl beneath the bedclothes and indulge my dreams.
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patchwork narrative - Lore


Lore


Before he grew bored with me, abandoned me to the street, my sire often enjoyed
imparting useful lore. He warned me, in grave detail, of sunlight, wooden stakes,
decapitation and fire. He bragged, repeatedly and with dramatic demonstration,
of the wonders of strength, teleportation, imperviousness to weather, immortality.
He took me around, taught me to kill so delicately, surreptitiously,
cleaning up my crime meticulously – always considerate of a society that
did not want or need to know that other worlds than what they agree to
go on with theirs, on these common streets and wilderness.
I have no reason to doubt my education. I continue it, learning
from experience in how to get on.
In a world where so many brazenly demand attention,
I am aware to refrain from encouraging observation.
I have nothing not to hide.
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patchwork narrative - Trade


Trade
 
 
A young man approaches. He is different from the others, more alive, more alert, aware.
He offers that he has seen me, been watching, desires a closer acquaintance.
He has taken an interest, become taken with an inspiration, an intuition
that we may share intimacies, may have a joining of paths to negotiate.
 
We walk along the river, out of public eye in the darkness.
He proposes a business partnership, pimp and prostitute with a twist.
He will provide a discreet address, a living space and place of trade
where he can bring customers who will not be missed.
We will share in what valuables these clients provide.
I will have privacy, daylight seclusion, certainty of living blood.
He will be the face that public sees for financial arrangements.
 
One last, most essential term of contract, he insists.
“Not now, not for a very long time, but when the time comes,
you will turn me. You will promise me immortality; and
I will be your loyal friend for life.”
 
We do not sign a legal bond in ink nor blood. We vow,
each aware of how easily the other could betray and
destroy us.
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patchwork narrative - Name


Name
 
 
So almost prophetic that my (once) legal initials, spelled
appropriately to their sound, make a common name
that also boldly proclaims:
“The lie”.
But, who is lying?
Does keeping silent to hide an undesirable truth
equate to a lie?
A lie to whom?
No one listens. They assume.
If their assumptions are untrue,
most likely they will viciously attack a messenger
who disagrees with their practiced views.
Who is lying to whom?
We are comrades in untruths.
Why spoil a beautiful equation
with uncomfortable proofs?
 
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patchwork narrative - Peter


Peter


Fox-like face, hard brown eyes with a sparkle like gemstones, this young man barely past adolescence, designated Peter, he tells me.
A rock eroded and chipped in various encounters. Born of stones crashing together through stormy nights.
He flings out random stories, volumes, as if my presence is promise of attentive audience.
I am at least a captive audience while daylight is my prison guard.
In truth, his entertainment is not unwelcome.
A cold and haughty wind blows outside. I hear it’s rumble against our richly draped windows.
Peter’s voice is harsh, not cold. Too raspy to carry strong emotion. Minimalist images pour from his lips.
Long past capacity for shock, I am not bored but surprised by the thoughts that stream along with his stories
in my mind. Human tragi-comedies. Why so cruel? Why so dismal? Why is violence so desirable?
Is life so driven by death that homicide is the ultimate sacrament?
Or is that merely one expression of a rite of suffering, of gratuitous pain shared out?
That dark glint of well-banked suffering suffuses his gemstone eyes as he brags, as he blusters.
“They knew who I was. They knew to be afraid.”
He has forgotten his audience. He is playing to the crowd of his memories.
In this darkened theater, I listen to boy and wind against the backdrop of all those other days.
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patchwork narrative - Stone


Stone


Smart to know what matters is
how you look to those around you.
The way to get by is to appear to be strong.
Belligerence is just part of the make-up
‘Til you don’t wake up from what’s gone wrong.

He accepted the command to obey, even as it was destroying him.
He believed he owed an oath of fealty to those who enjoyed
to those whom employed him.
Mother said:
“Your father? He is dead.”
Those men in her bed
were only a means to an end.
No one to defend him.
He must mend his ruly ways.
He must pretend to be
unruly and unfazed
absolutely unafraid.
What rage so gestates over years?
Weakened age outpaces death
among his fears.
If fate would just be a dear
she might relinquish him from either.
Laugh devilishly.
Fate is not kind. She is a jokester.
Some folks well deserve their joke.
Some just come along
for the ride.
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patchwork narrative - Churches


Churches


These myths about crosses, holy water, Christian artifacts, are in some sense amusing.
Such short-sighted arrogance these Christians expose.
Our kind greatly predate The Christ.
I have been told that some still walk who worshipped at the feet of our dark Lord’s bride.
Persephone, when she toured this world would take succor from such acolytes
in Her secret night rites.
Children of e God of Death and Transformation, we are born in intimate blood ritual.
We are damned with immortality to experience Hades on Earth.
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patchwork narrative - Addiction


Addiction


I have learned to be self-sufficient.
Nothing is reliable, not even fate.
The world changes, and changes again.
Don’t expect. Take what comes.
All the pleasures?
All the unexpected gifts?
The hard part is getting through the time, the days,
but also the nights.
I read, and think about different kinds of lives,
how it might be if, if, if ...
Very well, if you know that it’s a story, played out for fun.
What great fun, fantasies hidden from day life,
alone because I am too different to blend.
What entertainment could thrill enough,
capture this old, toughened heart?
Fun I neither seek nor enjoy.
I look for some way to make it all go away,
to escape, to imagine.
In that image, to dance on a pin of light,
soft green light.
Music is the air. Building in and out of crescendo,
taking flight like a falcon, carrying imagined me.
I am free in the only real sense of freedom.
I have no boundaries.
I am what the mystics call Bliss.
This is so rare, so much a blessing,
it most certainly cannot be relied upon,
can not be expected.
Mostly, I stink, am bruised and sore.
Mostly the air is filled with disease
that can’t kill me, but does not mean me well.
Mostly my thoughts are dark, self-loathing,
but not nearly as much as I loathe this world,
even as it changes.
The changes rarely seem to be for the better
of anyone, not for long.
The long view is mostly full of rot, mildew,
the stench of age and illness.
The will to go on becomes more of a habit,
an addiction.
The only cure for addiction is something better
to believe in.
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patchwork narrative - Discretion


Discretion


He knows to be discreet.
It is his main stock in trade, and probably why he has not yet been killed.
I am not considered a risk, considering my own stake in secrecy.
Peter brags he is finding a good share of our clients by offering
a pest removal (no questions asked) service.
His finds are not only men who will not be missed,
but men whose absence is desired enough to pay well.
I am concerned that our home may become associated with foul play.
He assures me.
He knows to be discreet.
No one will be privy to our location who will be in any position to tell.
Considering how I have lived, how I continue to live,
I have no room to make moral judgments.
The law of life is that we become predator or prey to other life.
Hunger is what forces us to reach out into the world.
Peter hungers for money, for the security he believes it represents,
and for the thrill of the hunt.
I feel no thrill in hunting, in killing.
My hunger is for the basic energy that I require
to hunt, to kill, feed, to feel the blood reinvigorate.
It is simple, this life, thought not easy.
If life were meant to be easy, we would not need.
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Re: postapocalypse


I'm pretty sure I've said this before, libra: you are a deep diver. Tere has often remarked you are a thinker. Yes, and also someone who feels deeply. These qualities come through again, here.

Some sections/stanzas that struck me from the first post in this thread:

Lush silk
Purrful presence
Solid, agile friend
  
    
Success = Having a goal, and reaching it.
It can be any old goal you like.
Success is of limited value,
limited by the value you attach
to your goal.
  
Run through streetlit puddles
anonymous legs, trousers, stockings, galoshes, heels.
Stuck in frantic motion.
Shadowlike, insubstantial
Running dampness smudges ink into ideograms.
  
  
This body is not me; only what I have to travel
to hunt the dark, hide from the day.
I am hunger unrelenting, eternal.
Pallid, weak, alone.
What story can I tell myself to comfort, imitate warmth?
Putrid alleys, dark cellars
musty air of mystery, regret, revenge.
No morals here, no heat nor passion.
Cold, empty of anything but time,
to kill.


I pretend to familiarity with your vocabulary
I pretend we are all linguistically aligned
agreed upon signs and symbols of some common tribe
I pretend my mind doesn’t trick to treat me like a docile child,
that laws of wild origin proceed
I pretend that pretense is what I need
to keep me sane, free to explore, to exploit my explorations
into song, into hyperbole
I pretend that nobody can see
rather than reveal the truth of their disinterest.
  
  
Any self-organizing system is limited by the confines of environment
within which it must find sustenance to survive
I am no good at these little anecdotes, pithy trunks filled with
collected gems, street stoop wisdom, chit and chat on
an evening breeze
It’s not like when the lines come prearranged in visual fantasy
or crazy waves obscuring sound so we hear only by reflection
After vision clears and the dream becomes tomorrow
with nothing left to confess
I am opening to new suggestions
Language requires cooperation
  

Government is a creature of society. It is the responsibility of society to control it.


I want to tell because it screams through me.
Not a sketch or a story, a whirlwind, a storm too vast and quick to name.



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Re: postapocalypse


Hi again, libra, I got caught up on this thread and am reminded of "Interview with the Vampire." Not in a derivative way as the main character here, the Brad Pitt character if you will, is a woman, which I find to be of special interest. At least that's how I'm reading the ongoing story the poems and vignettes tell. You seem to be tapping into the zeitgeist of our times as vampire stories have been of great interest in recent years. Zombie stories, too, I guess.

I like the insights into human nature, troubling as they can be, that some of the sections provide. For example:

"The only cure for addiction is something better
to believe in."

And, of course, insights into themes like hunger, power, loneliness, morality and immortality, to name a few, that can be seen in starker terms when the main character is a vampire.

Last edited by Katlin, Feb/9/2013, 5:44 pm
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patchwork narrative - Travel


Travel


There’s always the chink in the armor, the catch in the plan.
From his garbled mid-flight explanation, some business associate
with legal complications settled an old score and got leverage
by suggesting a better target, who turned out to be Peter.
Sophisticated surveillance has brought jeopardy to our home.
We must flee.
Peter has appropriated a car. He lifts me into the trunk
along with a valise full of cash and a garment bag
full of personal belongings – his, not mine.
I travel as I am.
But why am I traveling now, in this mobile container?
I am carried, not by my own power, into a new life.
Though this anonymous road is not the river of the dead,
I am ferried into novelty, unknown territory, a kind of transformation.
And why should Peter carry me?
I am his ace in the hole to immortality.
Perhaps he also feels that we are in this adventure together,
a team of convenience but also camaraderie.
Or maybe, like the cash and belongings, I am something
of value he has acquired.
Of course I can leave at my volition.
I can leave his intentions when I’ve somewhere to go.
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Re: postapocalypse


Thanks, Kat.

My inspiration here is the movie "Let Me In" based on a Swedish vampire novel "Let the Right One In".

I have been haunted by the vampire character, a 200 year old 12 year old. Reading about the book in an interview with the author, he talks about trying to express the horror and loneliness of such a life.
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Re: postapocalypse


I have been haunted by the vampire character, a 200 year old 12 year old.

Wow, I never even thought about the age of the vampire!
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patchwork narrative - Identity


Identity


I am capable of giving what is denied to me –
easy death and sexual pleasure.
Perhaps I am no predator or monster, but an existential altruist.
I give release without mutuality.
Of course, I take my price.
Today I have been released into an underground parking garage.
I wander beyond the ill-gotten car, on concrete empty of footfalls.
Peter has left me here in darkened safety while he finds lodging
and scopes out the town where we have harbored.
I had fed recently and well before our mad escape.
I have no need of company.
I do not wonder what I will find outside at nightfall.
I will find what awaits me.
Listening to be sure there are none close
to wonder about my presence here,
I consider my identity.
If I am always me to me, do actions matter?
Do differences in place, in those around,
in what I tell myself I am, matter?
I feel the call of darkness, of twilight’s fade,
even here, underground.
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patchwork narrative - Time


Time


A park where homeless people sleep, even in this damp cold.
Late hour bars, groggy patrons stumbling home, often alone.
Some carry guns for protection; but who would think
a need to shoot me? What would they gain if they did?
Other creatures of the night, junkies, pros, prowlers,
kids no one wants.
Deep night is my poacher’s forest.
I am in some senses exhilaratingly free,
in so many senses bound,
to instinct, to torment, to destiny.
I do what I do. I am what I am.
Where? When?
Sometimes I pretend it matters.
There really are endless possibilities.
I like the dank, rainy nights.
Blurred lights, the insistent sound of wetness
like street blues.
I like to find my way to open water, to look,
entranced, into blackness, mesmerized by
the rippling, the rhythm, the waves,
caressed by the wind.
Many mortal lives are sadder than mine.
All the drivel goes on and on, but then
moments appear.
They appear, hold me so closely that their
perfume becomes my soul.
And then the moment goes, forever,
like every other, each beautiful and unique.
Mostly I don’t think about the vast grey
everyday, or what might occur, or what is occurring.
Time washes over while I imagine little capsules
of perfect beauty, or self-loathe
into a frenzy of empty rage.
In all this time, I suppose I might have
made myself better, taken a long-term interest
that paid off or at least made me cultured
and debonair.
Where does all that time go?
When I look to remember, my mental resistance
insists it knows best.
Memories arise in bite-size reveries that
quietly dissipate as tangential thought takes hold.
To look at it all, to even contemplate that ride,
is repellent.
I have important skulking and hiding to attend to.

Last edited by libramoon, Feb/11/2013, 3:46 pm
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patchwork narrative - Trial


Trial


It was said, everyone knew, some whispered in my presence,
that I was born a bastard of rape.
My mother, a pious maiden, in penance gave me
into servitude to the Brotherhood.
Thus she was allowed to return to her Sisterhood’s
life of humble ministration.
I never knew her, or have no memory
of such an early time in my life.
I knew nothing of the treasured childhood that comes with family.
I was a low thing, circumscribed by duty.
I was educated, taught to read, write, do sums,
memorize long passages of scripture, sing in the Holy Choir,
take my part in ceremonies, taught for useful service.
I was taught to please my masters as my only worth.
Any modification to please their plans was my sacred duty to undergo.
Any master. Any metamorphosis. Any mutilation. Accept.
When he bit me, as the fast-acting soporific emitted from his fangs
entered my artery, I hoped this was my end.
It wasn’t. He did not drain me, but woke me to force his blood
into my sagging mouth to remake me in his image:
immortal, powerful, supernatural, outside of the laws of man.
I learn to create my own sacred place, free of duty, free of the yoke of belief.
I am my own silent sanctuary beyond the touch, the reach of their world.
What good am I, have I, what good does it do me to have a conscious me
apart from my puppet role, plaything of powerful forces and men?
Perhaps after all the trials of my journey, it is enough to have a
consciousness that knows me so well and feels a kind of comforting love.
Perhaps the kind of love a mother feels for a child she never wanted,
who is yet of her, a companion to her trials.

Last edited by libramoon, Feb/12/2013, 8:52 pm
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patchwork narrative - Conversation


Conversation


I am making a habit of hiding through the day on the floor
of Peter’s car, covered by coats of my victims carefully
shorn of identifications.
Peter has not returned while I am here, or left evidence
of his presence while I am away.
Fending for myself has never been an issue.
I do wonder if he will reappear, under what circumstances.
Relationships with mortals don’t last long.
Usually their mortality is not what parts us.
I am not easy to know.
I don’t make light. I don’t make fun.
I watch, listen, rarely comment.
I am not social.
I was not raised to social grace.
I was taught to serve.
Serving only myself I employ no social skills
other than unobtrusive observation.
I respond, clearly, succinctly, when that opportunity
is offered.
Peter welcomed my silence as invitation to fill
our conversational space.
I welcome solitary silence as a refuge.
Knowing what to say, how to cleverly manipulate
with word associations, skills not encouraged in
lowly servants expected to be discreet and not heard.
A stealthy night hunter uses less humanizing weapons
to hold prey than conversation.
Physically, I am too relentlessly cold to be of comfort.
There is more than enough darkness, tragic trajectory,
hellish anecdote, in the human world.
I spin insulated stories for ample companionship,
hidden from the days.
There are days I suppose a desire to walk out
into a burst of hellfire agony, of flaming glory.
A force I would not have believed could so
strongly control from within me denies such action.
I am content to hide.
That is my will, free to accept fate.

Last edited by libramoon, Feb/13/2013, 2:30 am
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patchwork narrative - Child


Child


Back in my mortal days, when they did they would say
I was a sweet-looking child, so very many years ago.
I don’t appear in mirrors now;
I wouldn’t know if that sweetness persists.
If you saw me, a scrawny child of indeterminate gender,
unkempt, ill-clothed, filthy like a refugee,
would you wish me gone, wish me well, feel terror?
You see such children on the streets. I do.
Refugees from domestic wars are a secret no one keeps.
When I take one, I feel a kind of blessing, a kindred irony.
I don’t turn them.
Damnation is not for me a means of making friends.
I feel them, smell them, make an altar of my senses.
A sacred feast of sacrificial lamb’s blood
ought to require deep honor, respect.
I do befriend them, to give them that last memory
of innocent love.
We walk together to some secret place, a shared adventure.
If it is their place, they enjoy the ritual of inviting me in
to their sanctum.
I listen to woes and dreams that I honestly bond with.
I give what I am able, take what little treasure they possess.
There are too many people this world regrets.
Too many extras that won’t be missed, whose destruction
was never in doubt.
My kind can only cull a few.
People, though, you are clever.
You find ways, devise games
to destroy and self-destruct at all gradations of cruelty.
Is the monster in the demon or the man set free
of mortal restraint?
Or, does mortality constrain?
How large a body count can one mortal lifespan support?
Can we include those who are not directly killed,
but slow poisoned by soul-burning hatred?
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patchwork narrative - Order


Order


It’s all about moving through.
The days in hiding, the nights out in the world, skulking, hunting, moving.
There can be no real relationships, no legitimate job.
There is no blending in to play the game,
not for a homeless child who will never grow older.
The local system, institutions, they’d be forced to see what I am.
And what I am does not exist.
What could they do with me?
My existence is a serious secret.
I am always learning to hide as conditions change,
as progress increases surveillance.
Nobody’s business is less reliably our own.
So far, there are always people low enough,
places of disarray and desperation where those of real power
have no interest.
The power of the street – the fist, the knife, the gun, the gang
-- not my problem.
Light of day or public discovery I must avoid.
Moving through the backstreets, private realms of common space,
part of what wants never to be seen, noticed,
enslaved to official inquiry.
At least the cameras can’t betray me,
unless a living witness is open in eyes and mind enough
to realize that I was there and not recorded.
Their willful ignorance can’t always be counted on.
It’s not a paranoid delusion if it’s true that my identity
is forbidden.
It is good that no one wants to know me,
for what is here to know?
A phantom moving through shadow to shadow,
avoiding contact or explanation.
My job is death.
I have no business with people who deal in
ordinary, orderly exchange.
Fantasy is about creating a place for what
you can’t have where you are.
In fantasy I can be bound in prosaic harmony
of work and love.
In reality, well, you know,
I don’t exist.
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Re: patchwork narrative - Order


hi libra,

I just read "Child" and "Order." Very powerful, especially "Child." I've read one vampire novel (Interview With the Vampire) and that was enough for me.

These are good, libra, really effective, chilling,

Chris
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Re: patchwork narrative - Order


thanks, Chris.
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patchwork narrative - Home


Home


While the whole world is out and about,
pursuing tips and victories,
I make sorry nest in my makeshift cave of the day.
While prowling in the night
I find abandoned basement lairs.
I can get in through a window, then cover it
with fabric at hand.
Usually old remnants come with the place.
Sometimes mildewed books – all too often
historical romance potboilers with overwrought plots,
impossible dialog, little to no accurate history,
yet colorful enough prose to hold a reader’s eye.
My night hunter’s eyes optimize in low light.
They take what they get, enjoy the colors.
I can teleport line of sight, or through a route
I know so well I can follow accurately in my mind.
I like a place I can reliably access before dawn.
A place generally unappealing, unthought about.
I need no working amenities, no wires or cables,
no links to outside.
I am content with walls, windows covered,
to abide quietly.
I use what contents lie about for amusement.
Even old telephone books, pages frail from
compromising weather, tell stories, prompt
imaginings of relationships between names,
smiles over unintended puns, games with
numerologies.
Minds look for patterns.
We want our world to make sense.
We want stories with happy endings,
or justified ironies.
We want cause and effect, clearly demarcated,
posted warnings we can ignore at our own risk.
But even when we risk with abandon, we expect
saving, at least by Jesus or Love.
We want. But we so seldom get what we want
that we make up stories to explain our own
shortcomings rather than want something more
obtainable, or find joy in making do.
If I really wanted something better, in all
this time wouldn’t I have found it, or
given it a name?
I like quiet.
It lets me hear, notice, the little changes,
when the big winds aren’t obscuring.
I like my own company.
After all these years of such companionship,
shared private humor, calming tricks,
sustaining fantasies – even though we know
they aren’t true.

Last edited by libramoon, Feb/21/2013, 4:28 pm
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patchwork narrative - Anger


Anger


When I feel safe enough to allow indulgence,
I luxuriate in the anger, the boiling energy,
ecstasy of self-elevation into scenarios of revenge,
retribution, redistribution of pain.
Invisible, passive, placid to surface gaze,
not because I am unfeeling.
I feel intensely, ungated flood that overwhelms
cogent thought, effective action.
Emotion is an indulgence to satisfy in private
containment.
I am no avenging demon, no champion,
no rebel, not even a pawn for a cause.
Vermin, just a scrawny scavenger,
a very little cause or consequence.
The only feeling that drives my action is
abject hunger, the force of brutal survival,
energy with which to move forward to
suck out more energy to continue.
Elongated sadness, pointless rage,
cycles and seasons and hunger
without remission.
This is not suffering.
This is life everlasting.
This is raw laughter
in the face of eternity’s smug sneer,
self-indulgence, the freedom of mindless rage,
unfocused, impotent, mine.
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patchwork narrative - Autumn


Autumn


She is brave.
I am not.
When first I am aware of her,
she is in frenzied battle against
monstrosity of momentarily feral
young men intent on feeding
gang lust.
Her energy ignites me.
I feel forced to act in her behalf.
There are too many for me to drain.
At my size despite gorging capacity, '
I could take maybe the two smallest.
I can leap, grab, suck quickly on each,
turn off their power with
my bite’s gifted vacation to oblivion.
I embrace her, hold close, escape through the ether.
We emerge on a secluded walk of river beach
I frequent, a memorized retreat.
She is shaken from the attack, shivering,
unable to clearly speak.
It is clear she has no fear of me, no trepidation
or awe or confusion about my role in this adventure.
She looks to be a bit older than I do, at that awkward
interval of rounding into womanhood unevenly.
She is very young.
Still, there is an ancient aspect to her countenance.
Perhaps it is shock, a distancing from emotional trauma.
But I feel her basic strength, a will made for
resiliency.
She makes eye contact, clings to my eyes with hers
for comfort, for a locus of calm.
She makes grateful introduction, offers her name.
She is called Autumn, season of my Lady’s fall
into Her fate.
I feel this Autumn’s presence, essence, so strongly.
How is this mortal child meant to intersect
with my destiny?

Last edited by libramoon, Feb/23/2013, 5:06 pm
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