When you fall in love, there is no negotiating with gravity.
Author Archives: Black-Eyed Fetus
Why do I feel inspired when I get caught
At a Glance
I found myself, with the TV blaring in the background, trying to write something meaningful, but failed, just as I usually do when I run low on cigarettes, pills and booze.
The TV was on, and a brief story was running a rescue piece about a wounded fox entangled in barbed wire. It sounded painful, but what do I know about foxes in pain, road-kill orphaned badgers, or even the blind but optimistic farmers in need or heart surgery… i may simply be out of touch with reality, maybe even heartless as those senile war criminals who we far more than often see escorted into court in a wheel chair smiling…
When I turned my head, thinking this poor fox was in for some more pain. To my surprise all he did at that moment was stare back at me… like I’m was the wounded animal.
Little Poem Ravaged #14
A misunderstood stand – pun intended.
Malicious wolves had chewed their way through the sinews of the deer, diving deeper into the prey; they noticed movement within the carcass, as though there was something trying to make its way out. The pack instantly froze, and had fixed a curious stare at what might be their next kill. Taking caution, they took a few paces back; and watched, birth. For this was rare – no pun intended. An unwounded offspring made its way through, forcing its way free from its mother’s wolf made c-section. It tried standing, for the first time, but naturally, it failed. It tried again, and managed to stand, only for a moment; it then looked up at the wolves, and took its first breath of the world. The first breathe, the wolves, the mutilated carcass painted on a canvas. I like it; I think I’ll buy it.
Little Poem #12
To whom this may concern
Young boys dressed in green,
Pick up your arms,
It’s off to the fields.
Mothers stop weeping
Make yourselves useful,
The fields need sweeping.
Father’s be proud,
Your boy killed seven,
and you’ll see him in heaven.
Dear mothers, there is still another
Why don’t you send us his younger brother?
Fathers be glad, we found your son
He’s intact, in a body bag.
And fathers, don’t feel bad,
The dead can still call you dad.
Little Poem #11
I found a Polaroid of myself from when I was four.
A clown held me, the same manner my father did.
The clown was laughing, and I was crying.
I do not like the picture.
Little Poem #10
Solitude is misunderstood.
Yesterday’s on the next page,
And you see a blur.
Little Poem #9
Strangled you, lay beaten blue
The fellow you claim, who would do you good,
Little Poem that Couldn’t #8
The deeper the wound, the more lenient Death is
He was the folder that was never shredded
The shredded folder that was never thrown out
The thrown out shredded folder that wasn’t recycled
The recycled thrown out shredded folder that wasn’t manufactured
The manufactured recycled thrown out shredded folder that wasn’t bought
The bought manufactured recycled thrown out shredded folder that was used
That was to be
Little Poem #5
Dungeons of Human Progress
A fresh latex glove
Inserted its piteous branches
Into the forests of expired clones
The erroneous race is here,
To modify evolution itself.
Telekinetic resurrected dodos
But what is to be
Of these critters,
In the shiny metal cages?
– These illogical humans.