my thoughts on a lady who just crossed my thoughts and who has been, for quite a while

So, ha; you have bought into it.

My perversion of wrapping my mind around you thoughts, to keep you arguing, specifically with me. To see you arguing with anyone else brings me low. As I suspect that their wits do not match up well against yours (lalala, they be dumbkopfs), but I still see you letting them win. It's obvious to me. I can't stand it.

I once had poetry to describe you. This is what is left: poetry, (as I am not quite sure what will or might change). We disagree so closely.

Realizes that October is a long time ago and that the rain has started to come down.

October is gone and so are the leaves of a year, the pages also turned and spent. They are now dirt striding under the heels of boots, gone adventuring into spring.

I wonder about the spring and its dawn, now that its dawn is here, now.

Before, 'twas just its hope, and now it's the reality of the alchemical reactions of composting, the nitty-gritty of nature; although today I thought even deeper, folding space-time into itself.

This maybe as much reality as I am willing to unleash unto the world.

I'm in a box of mine own and of natures making.

Post-Feminist Masculinity

FUCK!

Here it comes.

There you go.

Another project left undone.

Another job gone.

I blame society.

I blame you.

You're a fucking bitch.

I'm fucking perfect.

I lie.

You burden me with truth.

Some sorta post-post-modern-ancient-future tale of changing and things.

I lie awake at night and think about the spore that created me.

How did it come to pass this transformation into otherness?

Why am I under this Voodoo?

Who will know the things I have seen, feel, smell, when all is done?

What is the nature of consciousness; will mine become lost?

When it is done, will the pain end?

---

One day I awoke a bit stuffy and pale. It was approximately noon, a bit early for me to rise. Jumping out of bed, I noticed the tile floor under my feet was a bit squishier than usual. Having gone drinking the night before, I at first chalked it up to yet another hangover. I climbed the stairs to the bathroom across from the basement door. Every step was curiously, softer.

I relieved myself, and started the descent towards the solace of my bed. Then something clicked in my brain. I rushed back to the bathroom mirror I had passed. I looked. I stared. I tried to slap myself in the face. It didn't have the same impact as usual. I went back to gazing.

I was a mushroom.

Well, an anthropomorphic mushroom. I still had features of a human: legs, eyes, arm, mouth, all in the right places. Everything seemed intact. Yet, I now had gills growing in my neck and was puffy.

My thoughts instantly raced back to the night before. Did someone slip Acid in a drink? Am I still drunk? What the fuck?

I decided to return to sleep, as this had to be a hallucination.

I returned to the basement in which I dwell, to the room below the parental units.

I fall asleep.

---

I have slept so much recently.

Nobody will wake me. The parents are gone on vacation. No one's home, except me. If someone does come by, I ignore them.

Eventually, everyone goes away.

My roots are growing deep into the mattress, on which I lay.

The puddle of piss and shit grows. It hurts too much now to uproot myself. Fortunately, I no longer eat or drink, get hungry or thirsty. But the smell is terrible. That's the worst part.

My sight is almost gone and hearing is dampened. Though I still feel, it has changed. Unfortunately, scent will not abandon me. I smell perfectly the sewer which, what I hope, is my deathbed.

Let me slip away.

dream of: dreaming the dreamer

So... there I stood at the precipice of dawn, wondering where the sleep had gone.

No dreams in the night will wake me from slumber during the day, of course. Already I am the bleeding heart of my nightmares, a succulent cross between an orange and doom.

When it comes, it comes down like a freight train on an all-night haul, and diffracts into many dimensions, not just light.

Then, when it 'tis over, a shivering mass of flesh rejects itself and finds the stargate home.

hunter

fantastic and rough i follow the road ever running down the stream of breath and life and the scent of blood, I am tracking now, I seek the flesh of those wild, my instinct leads me off the beaten game trail, into the scraggy, dense, undergrowth.

close, wounded, and frightened my prey is near, slowing now as blood loss brings them surely toward the end, I want the meat fresh though, I want the last beat of the heart in my teeth, capturing their strength and soul.

I hear a shuffling in the branches, I wait gently sniffing the air for the strong metallic scent of blood on the breeze, as I slowly turn my head back towards my origin, that heady smell comes my way, and then a low rustle,

instantly my muscle contract and release and I am airborne sharp teeth ready for the kill and revel in the moment.

outsider

And here I am, blind in the soul of magic; struggling desperately for some kind of hold on the mystic arts they claimed everyone could use. Everyone but me.

My sister at the age of two could cast fire from her fingers. I would die to produce one spark.

Mother prattles over me, saying it will be okay, some just blossom later than others. I am not some stupid flower.

Father is ashamed even to look at me. I tend to avoid him now.

In school girls giggle as I pass, the boys torture me with the same three pranks; they can't even think of something original, and I'm the one who can't cast.

I have one friend, my pet frog, Charlie.

When I fall to sleep weeping, as I do often, I curse the name of the Magus.